


Peace out, bitches

by Sa_kun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Transgender, Transphobia, Transsexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sa_kun/pseuds/Sa_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sam off at Stanford, Dean decides it's time he started a new chapter in life as well. In California, with a job he more or less loves, a new apartment and sporadic visits from his brother, he finds friends, companionship and family again. Oh, and then there's Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace out, bitches

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, people, I could probably write a thousand notes about this story, but I won't. Instead, I'll let you read this in peace. The homo/transphobia in this story mainly stems from clueless comments issued by an equally clueless Dean. Sometimes, we just don't know that words hurt, you know? This was written for the [DeanCas BigBang](deancasbigbang.livejournal.com) challenge.
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful Nam, who once again did the beta for me. She is wonderful and the best.
> 
> You can find all the glorious, glorious art [here](http://bladegryphon.livejournal.com/153888.html). Aren't I lucky, huh?
> 
> Now, I really recommend that you don't scroll to the end notes, because I think reading from start to finish is really the way to go here, but if you still absolutely need to know who's trans* in this story and what everyone's sexuality is, then, well. I really can't stop you, can I? I just really wish you didn't. It reads better that way.

Dean moved in on a Friday. The apartment had definitely seen better days, but it was the fresh start he needed right now with Sam gone for greener pastures and college.

He ended up settling in a place an hour away, close enough that it didn’t feel like there was an entire country between them but still far enough that they could learn to live without each other. The move to California wasn’t much, but it kept him from growing stagnant in South Dakota.

That’s not to say it was ideal by any means, because Sammy’d been part of his life forever, always right there wherever they were and now he wasn’t. That part hurt, left a hollow ache somewhere deep inside. Now, the brat was at fucking Stanford on an impossible scholarship, and Dean was in some small town on the outskirts of San Francisco. Granted, Dean could’ve just as easily stayed with Bobby, but he hadn’t wanted to. He’d needed a change, something new.

“You settling in okay, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam,” came the instant response. “And yeah. I mean, my roommate’s a douche, but it’s okay. Could be worse, right? I mean, he doesn’t watch porn on the _loudest_ volume, so that’s something.”

Dean grinned. “Bitch, porn is awesome.”

“It’s stupid, and it exploits—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean stretched out on his couch. It wasn’t _technically_ new, but it was the first one he’d ever gotten without dumpster diving, and it didn’t smell funky or anything either. “Your classes started up yet?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Nervous?”

There was a prolonged silence from Sammy’s end, then words more or less exploded over the line into Dean’s ear. “What if they realize they made a mistake or something? That it was wrong, and I wasn’t supposed to get a scholarship, ‘cause they really meant to give it to someone else who didn’t garow up all over the US with no money or—”

“Dude, you graduated without a single plain A, man. No way they made a mistake. I’m awesome, right? So that makes you at least above average by default.”

“Dean—”

“You’ll be fine, Sammy. You’ll ace your classes, impress your teachers, and you’ll get the hottest chick around despite you being the giant princess of a geek that you are. They’ll love you, okay?”

“I’m just. I’m so nervous, Dean.”

“When’s your first class?”

“Eight.”

“Dude, that’s early.”

“Yeah, I. I didn’t think, ‘cause I have all the early classes. I don’t know why, but I thought it was a good idea ‘cause then I could get out early, you know? Except Mondays. Mondays are holy sleeping-in-days.”

“Damn right they are.” Dean swallowed. “So, I was thinking. Most parents give their kids money, right? When they go off to college?”

“Dean, no,” Sam protested at once.

“Sammy,” Dean snapped. “Look, I figure I just give you the same as always, right? I mean, it’s not much, but… I’d feel better, all right?”

“I could get a job,” Sam said.

“No, you can’t. You feel like you could handle it in a month, then go ahead, but not until you’re settled in. It’s not easy, okay? Balancing work and school.”

“You were sixteen,” Sam said.

“And it was high school and I nearly flunked all my classes.”

“…you did? You never told me that.”

Dean shrugged even though there was no one to see it. “Never told anyone. I worked it out, though. Got it sorted over the summer, but, yeah. I’m just saying, it’s not as easy as you’d think.”

-.-

Dean’s first day of work was two days later. His new boss was nothing and everything like Bobby all at once, and Dean liked him. Of course, it was Bobby who’d more or less fixed the job for him, setting him up with an old friend who was running a business out in California. All Dean had to do was show up and prove how much better he was than Bobby was saying.

-.-

He got settled into a routine in no time at all. He went to work at eight, got home at five, had his weekends off and bought groceries when he needed to. Every day at six, one of his channels showed an episode of Stargate: SG-1, and Dean got into the habit of watching it while eating his dinner (shut up, the show was all gratuitous eye-candy, bad puns, banter and shit blowing up; MacGyver was just icing on the cake).

Sam called about once a week, but in contrast he texted what felt like every other hour or sent emails stuffed full of long-winded sentences and pictures taken with his crappy camera phone. In all honestly, Sam was the reason Dean was a sci-fi junkie with an unhealthy appreciation for basically every show out there that contained the word “star” (and there were a lot of them).

He’d been living there for over a month the first time he found himself at the local library. It was a Saturday, and Dean’d been out just looking around. He didn’t feel like he was new in town – not that he ever did, the way he’d been raised, the aimless drifter – but it usually took a while before he felt _familiar_ with a place. Before, he’d had Sammy, but he didn’t now, and it made everything harder than he was used to.

There was no one to shoot the shit with after work, no one who’d fixed dinner when he got home, no one who left dirty socks all over the house, or ranted at him, or to go exploring a new place with.

If Sammy’d been here, he would’ve known everything there was to know about the library within a day, possibly less. Dean hadn’t really known how much he relied on Sam to figure things out until right then, until he was pushing the doors to the library open. Between the two of them, Sam was the avid reader, the one picking up books left and right, mixing genres and quality just to quench his geek-lust for printed words on paper. Dean? Dean was a picky reader. Also? The books on the young adult shelves were freaking awesome; never let it be said that Dean didn’t know how to find literature of the very highest standard.

“We try to reach out to all our readers,” the librarian said.

“Okay?”

“You can connect to our online message board using your primary email account together with your library card number. It’s an attempt to create discussions between our readers about the books they read. There’s a young adult section as well as a sci-fi forum.”

-.-

In the first week of October, he got a frazzled phone call from Sam that made basically no sense at all. Two hours later, there was a knock on his door. It was a Friday, it was ten o’clock in the evening, and no one he knew would come knocking unannounced (actually, he didn’t _really_ know anyone per se, but he did get along with the guys at work, and the librarian dude usually remembered him well enough that they were starting to set up a less-than-shaky repertoire with each other).

So, yeah, he wasn’t all that prepared for what was waiting outside when he finally opened the door.

Sammy was taller (again), his hair bore startling resemblance to those “electrocuted” guinea pigs, he’d lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose in the first place and his eyes were so wild Dean was willing to bet he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Dean!”

It was pretty much the only warning he got before he found his nose smashed into Sammy the Gigantor’s chest.

“Sammy,” Dean said, only his voice was muffled to the point of it being incomprehensible. So he patted at Sam’s back until the kid was willing to back off, then dragged him into the apartment. “You need to lay off the coffee, dude.”

“It’s insane! I love school it’s so fucking busy but I can’t sleep!”

Dean blinked, then pushed Sam to sit down on the couch. “Deep breaths, man. Come on, slow down and fucking relax already.”

Getting Sam to do something when he was hell-bent on doing something else (like, say, clinging to Dean like an overgrown octopus instead of sitting down like a normal human being) wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but Dean hadn’t raised Sam for nothing; he was a pro at distraction techniques.

So, when Dean finally had Sam sitting more or less still, he went out to the kitchen and fixed them something to eat and drink. By the time he came back, Sam was bouncing his leg up and down and he was staring at the TV, not even blinking.

Dean shoved a plate of reheated pizza at Sam, then sat back and watched as it was devoured in under a minute. He kept at it, pushing food and drinks at Sam until Sam’s motions became hazy and slow, like he’d gorged himself on too much of the good stuff and all he really wanted to do was lie down and sleep for fucking forever.

“Why are you here, Sammy?”

Sam blinked, slow and lazy. There was a healthy flush to his cheeks, fucking finally; he’d been paler than white when he’d knocked on the door. “My roommate’s insane. Told you ‘bout the porn. Keeps it on, all the time. He fucking fucks everything that moves, doesn’t care that I’m there. He drinks and smokes, and then yesterday I found this white stuff all over my fucking desk, so I just booked it, y’know? Just got the hell outta there. Don’t need that crap, can’t risk it. I wanna be a lawyer, Dean, wanna be the best lawyer there ever was. Fucking hate drugs.”

Something cold and hard gripped Dean’s insides in a choke-hold. “He’s doing stuff? You sure?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe, maybe it was baking soda. What do I know? It was white powder. Told the police. You’re supposed to do that, right? Everything went insane. Police everywhere, teachers and counselors everywhere. They, like, boarded up my room. So I thought: what the fuck do I do now, right? Everything’s fucked up, Dean.”

“Well, shit,” Dean said, then had three tons of Sasquatch all over him.

“You always fix things, Dean. _Always_. Just wanted to go home, _and you’re all the way over here_. So I got on the train and came here.”

In the end, Dean wasn’t sure how long it took, but eventually he managed to wrestle Sam into bed, where he rolled over once then was out cold.

-.-

Sammy slept for twelve solid hours, and he came staggering out of Dean’s bedroom at almost noon the next day with the most epic bed hair the world had ever seen.

“Dean?” Sam sounded confused and looked like he had no idea where he was or how he got there.

“So, I’m guessing you haven’t slept in a week, forgot to eat and read too many class books. You’re gonna do nothing but eat, sleep and laze around while you’re here, and you’re gonna tell me all about that roommate of yours.” Dean pointed at a chair by the kitchen table. “Now sit and eat, bitch; I made pancakes.”

“Pancakes?”

“I’ve got syrup, honey, Nutella, bananas and sugar. Pick a condiment, stuff your cakehole, and eat me out of house and home.”

Sam did as told, for the most part, and only asked for coffee and orange juice. The rest of that day, Dean showed Sam around his new town as best he could. Sam got on his case for not having explored it properly, while Dean defended himself by saying he’d been busy, and how it wasn’t even half as fun when he couldn’t mock Sam while doing it.

-.-

“It wasn’t just that, though,” Sam said. “I think, if I’d been a rich brat, then he’d have taken off with all my stuff and sold it. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy the most valuable thing I have is a bracelet you made me out of leftover bits of leather you found in Bobby’s scrapyard, you know?”

“He stole from you?” Dean asked, ignoring the way he warmed up inside at the causal mention of Sam’s most prized possession (shut up, Sam got him a necklace when he was shorter than a runt that Dean still refused to remove, okay?).

Sam shook his head. “I think he tried to, because sometimes it looked like someone had been going through my things. You know, like trying to make it look like you haven’t been doing it.”

Like him and Sam’d been raised to do.

“You set him up?”

“Hook, line, sinker,” Sam said.

They were out at a restaurant, one Dean’d gone past countless times but never felt like trying (not alone, anyway, but it was just the kind of place Sam was always harping on about). Of course, Sam’d looked all concerned when Dean took them there, because restaurants cost more money than diners or takeout, but all Dean really had to do was point out that now that he didn’t have to actively feed and water an aspiring Sasquatch, he had a lot more money left over by the end of the month than usual.

“Why go to the cops, though? We _never_ go to the cops.”

Sam shrugged. “Because it’s the kind of thing normal people do. I was like: I’m in college at Stanford on a scholarship. If I want to keep it, then I gotta make sure nothing messes that up for me. My roommate was gonna mess it up for me. So when I found the drugs, I went to the police. They kept me there, asking tons of questions, then followed me home. They checked it out, confirmed it, and then Mark came home high as a kite. So, yeah. That’s the deal.”

-.-

After that, there were several weekends where Sam just showed up out of the blue. Dean never complained, because he (more or less secretly) enjoyed it.

-.-

Now, just because the library had a forum and had given him a pamphlet and all, didn’t mean Dean just rushed home to take advantage of it and log on using his non-existent computer. So it wasn’t until Sam pestered him enough that Dean finally gave in and used his savings on a laptop. Ideally, he’d have used the money to buy one for Sam, but his brother had managed to score a deal and got the school to buy him one. Dean honestly wasn’t sure how that’d worked, exactly, he just knew the kid was freakishly proud of his accomplishment, as he should be.

So, being that Dean had very specific tastes when it came to books, and that he didn’t feel like getting involved in a discussion about the finer points of school assigned reading with a bunch of pimply pre-teens, he ended up poking around the sci-fi and fantasy forum. It quickly became evident that, A) other than kids, hardly anyone ever used the site (and Dean’d almost bet money on them only using it because their teachers made them for some school project or something), and B) the guys in the sci-fi forum had some serious conversations going on.

Though he wasn’t sure how, he ended up starting a new thread, labeled it “occasional sci-fi reader poked at a total of ONE fantasy book,” then filled the post with text that was mostly appropriate (he’d have to figure out how to get a spellchecker in his browser, seriously), and signed off.

It was just after six in the morning; he needed coffee, food and maybe a shave. Rufus was expecting him at eight, bright-eyed and fucking bushy-tailed, to deal with the sudden influx of moronic car owners who couldn’t seem to tell left from right (okay, so that wasn’t really relevant, but Dean was sick and tired of people who just fucking assumed they knew better than him ‘cause they had a fancy degree or something when they’d never even _looked_ under the hood of a car, much less _touched_ it).

-.-

When he came home that afternoon, a grocery bag in hand and a bad mood in tow, he was just looking forward to taking a long fucking shower, stuffing his face, then conking out to whatever episode in turn the Stargate re-run was on. After, stretched out on the couch with his computer in his lap and wires fucking everywhere, he found himself back on the library’s forum via one of those email alerts, because someone had replied to his thread.

**_ Charlie B: _ **  
_ So you don’t read fantasy, at all? _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Do you have a preference? What sort of books do you usually read? _

Dean blinked at the screen, then at the TV stuck on some movie from ten years ago. He read books he liked; that’s it. He didn’t have deep thoughts or reasons why he picked something up, it was just that he tended to gravitate to stuff that was easy to read, and that in turn generally tended to be aimed at young adults, so.

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ Young adult stuff mostly. It’s easy and good. And I read some Star Wars books but I just pick whatever’s new/haven’t read. Mostly it’s sci-fi-ish sometimes it’s fantasy. Like the Crow books. Never got into the whole fantasy thing tbh. Just don’t get it I guess. _

It didn’t really take long for Castiel (and what kind of name was that, anyway) to reply, listing a couple of books. Then Charlie piped in, dragged Castiel’s list of books through the mud, and replaced them with her own, slightly longer list.

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ What’s the difference? _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Charlie prefers strong, independent women who win the kingdom, the hero and glory. Basically, it’s a very common theme in fantasy but in reverse (i.e., the young, poor boy is the lost heir to the throne, wins a princess and glory and, in vanquishing the evil antagonist, becomes a hero and king). I prefer adventure, ambiguity and shades of gray. _

**_ Charlie B: _ **  
_ But Cas, you never have pretty elves in yours! _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Yes, I do. Several of them. Male. _

**_ Charlie B: _ **  
_ There’s a serious lack of breasts involved. _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ I know. _

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ Can you have both? I don’t care I just want good stories. And if they’re not too heavy then that’s better. If the book’s too thick then I’ll never pick it up.  _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Try Swordspoint. It’s not too thick, a bit more mature than Young Adult, and a good story. Ellen Kushner, the author, recently published a new book set in the same universe titled The Fall of Kings, if the first book inspires you to read more in the same universe. If you want lighter than that, let us know and we will try to find something else for you. _

**_ Charlie B: _ **  
_ Or anything by Lynn Flewelling! _

-.-

That’s how it started, Dean being an active member of an online forum. It kept happening, again and again, as Dean made his way through parts of the library he never normally would’ve considered. And Charlie and Castiel weren’t so bad, for two geeks, because while usually they just discussed books (or movies or TV shows), sometimes personal information was included in the posts (like, when they’d had shitty days or when they’d had the best of days), and it was all just because the library in town had decided to branch out online in order to attract customers in – and Dean was quoting here – “a more digitized world.” There was also the fact that everyone who used it tended to connect their accounts to their primary email addresses, and in order to sign up to the site in the first place they had to register their library card number, so it wasn’t like you could be anonymous anyway. Bottom line? It wasn’t shady. Charlie was who she said she was, same with Castiel, and if they broke rules, the digi-librarians kicked them out.

The best part, though, was that not a lot of people bothered to use it (the sci-fi/fantasy corner, that is; the kids were all over the Young Adult section). Which was awesome, because talking to two people kind of rocked over having to sort through miles of junk. It brought a strange coziness and intimacy to the internet, not exactly two spheres Dean’d ever associated with each other before. What it meant was that they could keep actual discussions going, without rude interruptions or idiots spewing spoilers all over the place. Or trolls. Goddamn, but Dean hated motherfucking trolls.

Of course, Charlie and Castiel both went for books that veered from the norm (the librarian had suggested Dean go with David Eddings, because his books were usually a good start if you were interested in finding out more about reading fantasy, and Dean eventually ended up reading them as well).

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ Dude there’s gay sex in this book. _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ If you have a problem with that, I suggest you go elsewhere. _

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ Don’t have a problem. Read young adult no sex ever remember? _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Have you ever heard of the use of commas in punctuation? _

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ Yeah don’t know when to use it so I don’t. I’m a mechanic not english teacher. Book is good btw. Like sword fighting. Librarian suggested Eddings going with that next. Said he usually tips twelve year olds about it so it’s right in my age group. _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ I think most have read Eddings at one point or another. If you do, read the Belgariad and pay no attention whatsoever to anything Charlie has to say about it. You’ll enjoy it more that way. Also… How old are you? _

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ 22\. 23 nxt yr. y? _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Please don’t do that. _

**_ Dean W: _ **  
_ Sry. ;) Meant right in my mental age group. Like easy reading cause life’s complicated enough without adding MORE drama to it. How old are you? _

**_ Castiel S: _ **  
_ Older than you. _

**_ Charlie B: _ **  
_ Whoop! Beat ya! ;D I’m 23. What’re you crazy boys up to? _

-.-

Then there was the day Dean found an email in his inbox from Castiel, and Dean wasn’t really sure how that’d happened, because the forum didn’t display their email addresses. The subject line read “I feel I should inform you that Charlie Bradbury is something of a hacker” and Dean wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, either. Also, Castiel’s email address? The dude was a teacher or something? It would explain his grammar compulsions, though, because the guy was nothing if not anal about it.

**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Hello, _  
_ This might be highly inappropriate, but I am not the best of judges.  _

_ You once said you were a mechanic. I assume you work on cars? If not, feel free to ignore this message entirely. _

_ My car has not been functioning as per usual lately. I was hoping you could tell me what is wrong with it. _

_ Sincerely, _  
_ Castiel Smith. _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Hey dude _

_ I’m gonna need more than that to tell you what’s up with your car. I’m a mechanic not a psychic. Anyway I work weekdays at Turner’s autoshop, (that’s a comma just for you you grammar freak) just swing by anytime and ask for me I’ll come take a look. _

_ Dean _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Dean: You missed a comma or two. _

_ Also, I’ll drop by as soon as I have time. My schedule is extra hectic this semester. _

_ Sincerely, _  
_ Castiel _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ You’re a teacher man? Awesome. _

_ And yeah I usually work out front everyday but anything can happen seriously one of my colleagues is insane. _

_ Dean _

-.-

“Dean!” Jo thumped him on the back on her way past. “Some guy here to see you.”

Dean blinked, then smirked. He was still wiping his hands on a rag when he rounded the corner and made it out to the front of the shop.

Castiel (Castiel Smith, 28, with the bluest eyes this side of the US, originally from Seattle, WA, owner of one turtle and two goldfish) looked decidedly out of place among the tools, tires and car parts cluttering the front room of the shop. Then again, most people who were clean looked out of place here, and Castiel was in a suit and a trench coat. In a way, Dean felt like he already knew the guy. At least, he reasoned, he knew all the bits and pieces that were interesting. Stuff you could talk about and use to fill the spaces that tended to develop into long, drawn-out, awkward silences with people you barely knew.

“Hey, Castiel,” Dean said, stuffing the rag into the back pocket of his overalls.

Castiel’s smile was a little hesitant in coming, but it was there. Sort of. If you were charitable. “Hello,” he said in return. “I followed your advice.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, I can see that.” He held out his hand, and when Castiel reached out and shook it, grip strong and firm, he added, “Nice to finally meet you, dude. Didn’t I say I wasn’t a creep?”

“You also favor Stargate over Star Trek,” Castiel said, voice only slightly stilted.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s take a look at your car, man.”

Castiel shrugged, but followed Dean back to his car nonetheless. It was green, a little scuffed around the edges, but relatively new and well cared for.

“It’s unforgivable, really,” Castiel said.

“Yeah?” Dean was distracted, busy taking the car in before popping the hood to have a look inside.

“My uncle once spent an entire summer lecturing me about the proper care of cars. I, of course, didn’t bother to listen because I didn’t consider it ‘important’.” Castiel paused. “I would ask him, except he’s in the Bahamas with a distant cousin of ours.”

“Hey, this isn’t for everyone. Take my brother: he doesn’t give a shit about cars and I’ve lost count of all the times he spent watching me fix mine up, or when he came to see me at work. He still doesn’t know a thing about what makes a car tick, you know?”

“I sympathize,” Castiel said. “Is it fixable?”

Dean nodded. “I’d point it out, but I don’t think it’d make sense to you.”

“Quite right,” Castiel admitted. “When can I pick it up?”

Dean considered it. He had a couple of other projects – long-term stuff, mostly – that he’d put aside time for. Then there was the paper work, Mrs. Gotham’s car, Mr. Pryce’s car— Dean interrupted his own thought process before it got away from him. “Tell you the truth, it’s gonna be faster and a whole lot cheaper if I swing by your place after work. I don’t have what you need on hand but I can get hold of it easily enough. Won’t take more than an hour or two to fix your ride up after that.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said. He looked really uncomfortable, as in, like, Dean was about to break in and steal all his stuff, uncomfortable.

“I don’t even have to come inside,” Dean said.

“I’ve had bad experiences,” Castiel said. “With strangers. There have been— I don’t do well with people I don’t know.”

“Dude, I’m not a stranger,” Dean said.

“I don’t know you.”

“Uh, yeah, you kinda do. Hell, you tell me which books to read, for crying out loud. I get that I’m a mechanic, yeah, and that we’re not supposed to read books with gay characters in them, and that we’re supposed to be macho-douches to people who are into gay lit. But, Cas: I don’t care what books you read or what color your tie is or that you wear it backwards.” Dean raised an eyebrow. “You don’t judge me for not reading books written for adults or go all smite-y on me for my grammar skills, right?”

“Right,” Castiel echoed. “When is a good time, then?”

“I get off at five every day and I don’t work weekends.”

Castiel nodded, then withdrew a slim book from the breast pocket on the inside of his trench coat. “I was going to have a meeting tomorrow, but it has since been canceled. After that, I’m not really available for two weeks.”

“I’m good tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, hit me with a time and an address, and I’m good to go.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@univeristy.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@univeristy.mail.com) _

_ So ground rules: _

_ I only bite when you say please and really beg for it _  
_ (and you really gotta beg, really) _  
_ I don’t hit people unless they’re messing with Sammy or someone else I care about _  
_ If you bribe me with food I’ll do whatever you want _  
_ (seriously I’ll be a slave for you) _  
_ If you bake pie I’ll be yours forever and ever _  
_ (yeah not lying about that either me and pie have a seriously unhealthy relationship) _

_ Dean _

-.-

When Dean submerged himself in something, like work, some good tunes or a decent sci-fi marathon, the rest of the world just sort of went away, natural as anything. So, no, he didn’t really think anything was all that weird about the fact that Castiel had probably been watching him work for a while when Dean finally did notice him, sitting on the last step of the stairs leading to his front door.

“Hey, man. Just ‘bout done here,” he said.

“Good. Dinner is also ready.”

As if on cue, Dean’s stomach let out a ferocious growl. “You didn’t have to,” he started, but Castiel cut him off.

“Of course I did,” Castiel snapped. “It’s the most socially accepted form of reciprocation.”

It sounded so much like a quote that Dean couldn’t _not_ comment on it. “You read that in a book somewhere?”

“My uncle told me,” Castiel said, almost perfunctory.

“Yeah?”

Castiel cleared his throat. “He took me in after, well. I lived with him for some years after I turned sixteen.”

Dean sort of paused at that, ‘cause Sam? He’d been all of fourteen when Dean put his foot down, loaded up the Impala with everything that was theirs and drove them off into the sunset. He got them an apartment in Sioux Falls, per recommendation from Bobby, then glued their life together with fucking duct tape (seriously, that stuff was practically unbreakable). He got a job, too, and got Sammy through high school, which he fucking aced, of course.

Then again, not everyone had John Winchester for a dad.

What Dean ended up saying, though, was this: “I took my brother in as soon as I could without fucking social services or those idiots at the CPS making a fuss. Dropped out of high school, got my GED. Been working as a mechanic ever since.” Of course, it’d been a bit more complicated than that in reality, but that wasn’t the point. They’d made it, him and Sammy, and they were all right – that was the point.

Castiel was quiet for a while, and Dean could see him sort of mull it over out of the corner of his eye. “Do you regret it?” he asked.

Dean shook his head. “Only wish I could’ve given him more, y’know? Stuff that wasn’t on sale ‘cause no one wanted it or ‘cause it came straight out of a second-hand store.”

“Personally, I found the fact that Gabriel was willing to take me in at all was more important than having the newest gadget available, or wearing the latest in fashion.” Castiel paused. “It outweighed most things, actually.” He tapped his chest, right over his heart. “This is what truly matters, Dean, and I’m sure your brother was just as aware of that growing up as I was. Did he complain about it?”

Dean just shook his head again, ‘cause the only things Sam’d ever complained about were Dad and the constant moving. When it was just Sam and Dean? Well, they were a better family, just the two of them, than they’d ever been with Dad.

“Does he live with you, still?”

“Nah, little geek got himself a full ride at Stanford.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s very impressive, Dean. Stanford is a notoriously difficult school to get into. You should be proud.”

“I know. I am. He’s a good kid.”

“You’re in contact?”

Dean nodded and shot Castiel a smile over his shoulder. “Almost every day, one way or the other. I moved out here because of him, you know? Would’ve still been back in Sioux Falls if it wasn’t for him, so, you know. Dude’s my brother.”

“My brother stopped speaking to me when I was sixteen,” Castiel said then, which made Dean drop the socket wrench on the ground with a clatter.

“What?” If his tone was more demanding than caring, Dean really couldn’t help it. ‘Cause to him? The most important part of his family was _Sammy_ ; hell, Sammy _was_ his family. “How could— _Why_?”

“He disagreed with my lifestyle choices.” Castiel looked at him, gaze steady and cheeks a little flushed, but that could just as easily have been from the wind as anything else.

“Okay?” Dean said, not all that sure he was getting was Castiel was aiming at. “I lived through Sammy’s experimental phase. Like, this one time he came home with his hair in a mohawk and fucking purple and it rubbed off fucking everywhere. I swear, all our whites went gray because of it, ‘cause it rubbed off on his sheets and stuff when he slept, and when we washed it the stuff just multiplied. And then, there was this other time when he came home with a Chihuahua, I kid you not, it was—”

“I refused to be what social norms said I should be,” Castiel put in, interrupting Dean’s ramble. “And I’m gay.”

Dean cleared his throat. “I’ve never really… I mean, most people have this idea they know what they like, right? They find a label and apply it to themselves. I just. I never did that. If I like it, I tap it.”

“I think,” Castiel started, “that your way might be the one that leads to ultimate happiness. If nothing else, it certainly leads to less confusion and violence.”

“Sammy wanted to go to a pride parade once, and he wouldn’t go if I didn’t come with.” Dean shifted a little, then frowned. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, there were a boatload of happy people there, all kinds of folk, and it was awesome, you know? It’s just… I don’t really like that kind of thing. It’s a shoutout for attention.”

“And you don’t like attention. I don’t either. But it’s more than that, Dean, Pride is about so much more.”

“I know, it’s just not really my thing.” Dean stepped back from the car then and closed the hood. “Dinner?”

“I made tomato soup. I’ll grill the cheese while you wash up.” Castiel stood up and brushed his trousers off. “If you want, you can use my shower.”

Dean grinned. “I think I will, if it’s all right with you.”

“I think I’d prefer it if you did,” Castiel said, and his tone was so dry Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “Though I’m not sure soup is adequate compensation for the work you did on my car.”

Dean waved him off. “We’ll sort it out over dinner, okay? I’m filthy as shit and I’m so hungry I could eat a horse right now.”

-.-

When Dean finally made it to the table, he was squeaky clean and his face was still a bit red from showering in too hot water. Of course, his hands never really got completely rid of the grease and oil that’d taken root in the cracks of his skin years ago, but unless he took time off from work for a while, they’d always look like this. Mechanic hands.

Castiel’d set the table, using matching plates and forks and glasses. It wasn’t something Dean’d ever owned. Most of his stuff was second-hand, a bit chipped and cracked along the edges. So, yeah, he couldn’t help but feel, right then and there, that he and Castiel were part of two very different worlds.

“You ever surprise people when you tell them you can cook?” Dean asked as Castiel served up the soup and grilled cheese.

“On occasion,” Castiel replied, smirking a little. “You haven’t actually tasted it yet, though.”

“No, I just meant, if you’re a dude living on your own, how else are you supposed to eat? This smells great, by the way.”

“Thank you. It’s quite hot, though.”

Dean’s stomach rumbled. “You know you’ll never get rid of me now, man. I warned you.”

“I did take that into consideration, yes.” Castiel’s smile was shy but caught somewhere a bit closer to a smirk, really. “It’s why I settled on blueberry pie, in the end. It’s quite delicious with ice-cream, I’ve found.”

Dean almost dropped his spoon. “You made pie?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and he sounded so fucking smug about it, too.

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Hey! What’s this about you and Cas going off and having secret meet-ups without me? _

_ A girl has needs, Dean. _

-.-

“Hey, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.”

Dean smiled and opened his door as wide as it ever got. “Don’t be a bitch, man.”

“I’m not, Dean. I’m just not a chubby twelve-year-old anymore,” Sam said, shoving his way past Dean into the apartment. Then he just sort of stopped and stared. “Dude.”

“What?”

“Why do you have a poster of Wonder Woman on your wall?”

Dean snorted. “Because apparently Charlie has _needs_.”

“Charlie?”

Dean shrugged. “This chick I met on the library forums. She’s got a thing for comics and stuff.”

Sam just looked at him, then pointed, with way more drama than was warranted, at the poster hanging innocently on the wall of Dean’s living room/kitchen area. “Yeah, but why do you have _a poster of Wonder Woman on your wall_?”

“Because apparently this place has zero personality, what the fuck do I know?”

“Since when do you care about what women you’re sleeping with want, man?”

Dean shrugged. “Don’t really, but I’m not doing Charlie, man. That’s disgusting. She’s, like, the little sister I never wanted.”

Sam blinked. “You’re hanging out with a girl and you don’t want to take her to bed?”

Dean glared. “I don’t fuck everyone that comes my way, man, and you know it.”

“Yeah, of course, but… Is she ugly?”

“No! No, she ain’t ugly, Sam, she’s— She’s hot, okay? But it’s not like that. We’re friends, kind of. I mean, we’ve only met once, and that’s ‘cause she was jealous that Cas had me over for dinner without asking her, too, so—”

“Hang on, wait! Who’s Cas?”

“Castiel. The other guy at the forum.”

“The library forum.”

“Yeah.”

Sam sort of grinned, sort of smirked. “So let me get this straight: you hang out in an online forum that the library hosts and then you arrange play dates? Aw, that’s so cute, Dean, you made a friend. You braid each other’s hair and bake cookies, too?”

At that, Dean felt it was only his obligation as an awesome big brother to wrestle Sam’s sudden case of bitchy snark back under submission.

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _

_ Dude are you hacking my mail? Not cool.  _

_ Fixed Cas car, btw. _

_ What needs? _

-.-

Dean regretted it the moment he asked Charlie what those needs were, and it looked like he wasn’t the only one who felt that way, because Castiel? Looked so out of his depth he was floundering.

It was a Saturday, they were at a café and Charlie was wearing a maniacal grin (okay, she was just so excited she was actually bouncing a little).

“This is so awesome, guys,” she said. “I mean, I know we’d _never_ hang out if it was up to society’s definition of how we’re supposed to function as human beings, but we like the same books, right?”

“We do,” Castiel agreed, and Dean leaned back in his chair, because Castiel? Had fucking lit up like a Christmas tree at Charlie’s ‘what is deemed acceptable by societal standards’ bull. His hands were trembling, though, when he reached for his large cup of tea.

Charlie’s were, too, though, so Dean figured he was the most “socially adapted” person at this table, which was kinda sad, because Dean? Well, to say he was fit for the public was kind of an exaggeration (or so Sammy would tell it, over and over, to anyone who cared to listen).

“I’m a high school dropout,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair in a good, proper slouch. “Mechanic.” He pointed at Charlie and Castiel in turn. “You guys aren’t. You’ve got high paying jobs, all kinds of insurances and you aced all your grammar classes. I don’t even know what a verb is.”

“It’s an action,” Castiel started at once. “A verb is something you do, as opposed to something that _describes_ the action, which is an adjective—”

“I dropped out too, then hacked the database and faked my grades,” Charlie blurted.

Dean grinned. “That’s awesome.”

Castiel sighed, though, and seemed to shrink, somehow, like he was trying to appear smaller and take up less room than a dude of six feet usually did. “I graduated high school when I was sixteen,” he said, voice quiet.

“Oh,” Charlie said.

“I think, had we stayed in one place when we were kids, my brother would’ve done that, too. He’s ridiculously smart, that kid,” Dean said. Castiel started a bit at that, so Dean smiled at him and knocked their knees together. “I’m just glad some people are smart, or else I wouldn’t have any cars to fix.”

“Do you know anything about vespas?” Charlie piped in, leaning over the table. “Mine has been sounding off lately and I don’t really know what’s wrong. Not like I can just cast a standard diagnostic spell on it, right?” When Dean just stared, Charlie darted a glance at Castiel, her face falling a bit. “Right?”

“She’s referring to Harry Potter,” Castiel explained.

“Oh, those movies sucked.”

Charlie choked.

Castiel chuckled. “They were books first. I’m actually surprised you haven’t read them; you are of the right ‘age,’ after all.”

“How have you not read Harry Potter?” Charlie demanded. “They are only great and awesome, and Hermione is probably the strongest female character in a book series that I’ve ever read, right, and the fifth book will be out next year, and it’s gonna be totally awesome!”

“Charlie, man, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Charlie just grinned and bounced a little. “I know. I don’t care.”

“I was quite excited about the release of Baldur’s Gate: the Dark Alliance,” Castiel said. “Have you heard of it?”

“Loved it!” Charlie exclaimed. “Oh my god, it was so epic!”

Dean leaned back again, cup of ordinary black coffee in hand, and tried to look like he wasn’t completely lost. Seriously, he didn’t have a fucking clue what they were talking about; none of it made sense. Still, there was a certain amount of serious enjoyment to be had in watching someone get off on something they obviously had a real passion for. In a way, it was kind of like hanging with Sammy when he went off on one of his tangents (seriously, Dean hadn’t been able to keep up with any of the advanced classes the kid’d ploughed through in high school, much less whatever it was he got up to right now at Stanford).

“—Dean? Is he listening? Are we boring you, Dean?”

There was a hand suddenly on his shoulder. “Dean,” Castiel said, tone demanding and eyes narrowed.

Dean looked to the side, where Castiel was staring at him, brow furrowed. Charlie was off buying something to drink, Dean realized, so, yeah, he’d probably been lost in his own little bubble for a while.

“Nah, man, I just don’t play videogames. Never have, so, you know.”

Castiel’s face took on a shamed expression. “I’m sorry. You should’ve said, we would—”

“It’s cool. If I’d minded, I would’ve gotten up and walked away. I’m not much of a talker, so I don’t mind just, y’know, sitting back and listening. Guess I spaced out.” Dean shrugged. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, but…”

“You’re not ‘geek’ enough for us.”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know, if I like the blurb on the back of a book, I’ll read it. If Stargate’s on, I’ll watch it. Don’t even get me started on Star Wars, because seriously, man, that’s just not fair on anyone. I mean, I like Vonnegut, but mostly I stick to the Young Adult section. Maybe it’s ‘cause I grew up constantly on the move, but I never really got _into_ anything, you know? No teams, no clubs, nothing.”

Part of it had to do with him more or less raising Sammy, sure, but most of it was because he never really felt like he fit anywhere. Always the new kid, always the stranger, always the one on the outside.

“I never exactly fit in during high school, because I was always younger. And smarter. Often, I was too smart, which intimidated people,” Castiel said, his eyes sort of flicking between Dean’s and the table.

“We never really had any money,” Dean said then. “So, even if— Well, I’m just saying we probably couldn’t have afforded it anyway.”

“Except, you’re kind of pretty, so I bet you had all the cheerleaders after you, right? ‘Cause you were all mysterious and cool and stuff, yeah?” Charlie sat down in her chair with a little shimmy, putting her drink of… something on the table. She looked expectantly between them. “Right?”

“Dude, I’m not _pretty_ ,” Dean protested, feeling his ears warm up uncomfortably.

Charlie raised her eyebrows. “Of course you are, don’t be silly.”

“I find you pretty as well,” Castiel said then, and he sounded just as fucking earnest about it as Charlie had. “You have very compelling eyes, Dean.”

“ _Guys_ aren’t pretty, okay? Girls are.” Dean looked away, drumming his fingers on his thigh, because, yeah. That part of high school hadn’t been a laugh, that’s for sure.

Castiel and Charlie exchanged a puzzled look, then Charlie nodded. “This is one of those social constructs about which words are associated with men and which are with women, isn’t it? If it is, then it’s stupid. I don’t like it; pretty is a perfectly usable word.” Her hands were a bit unsteady, though, when she reached for her warm drink (some kind of hot chocolate, probably, going by the smell wafting over). “I have lots of stuff I think is pretty. Luke Skywalker was pretty.”

When Dean chanced a look at Castiel, he was back to doing his ‘I can totally disappear into this piece of furniture’ act. So Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, when you’re a guy who’s going through twelve different schools in a year, you don’t want to be the ‘pretty kid’.”

“Okay,” Charlie drawled. “Why? Because all the popular kids are always, like, pretty or something.”

“No, they’re handsome or sexy or beautiful or gorgeous. You with me? The pretty _guys_ get shit ‘cause we look like faggots, okay?”

So, yeah, that was when Castiel pretty much exploded out of his chair and right into Dean’s space, face inches from Dean’s. His eyes were fucking burning, way too blue and way too emotional. “You do _not_ use that word, Dean! I won’t have it. There is _nothing_ wrong or amoral or perverse about homosexuality. You don’t get to use it like an invective or a bad word, or something shameful. You _never_ use it for that.”

“Yeah, dude, I know that,” Dean managed. Castiel’s eyes were too intense, and Dean was having serious troubles just meeting the stare head on. “That’s what I’m talking about—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not.”

“You’re not gay, Dean.”

Dean shrugged as best he could under the circumstances. “I’ve never really thought about it. You know that, Cas. I don’t care. A dick or a pussy, it’s all the same to me, man.”

Castiel just stared at him. “I don’t think you realize how I feel about this.”

“I think what he means is that it’s okay for gays to say ‘fag,’ or lesbians ‘dyke,’ for that matter, but not when straight people do it to demean us or bully us, or just be all around nasty about it.” Charlie quickly snuck around the table, then sat down on the arm of Dean’s chair. “A lot of people get a lot of crap for it, you know? It’s not easy, especially when it’s true. Hits closer to home that way. So you were called a faggot in school, so what? Didn’t bother you ‘cause you weren’t, but the kids who were?”

“We couldn’t just shrug it off,” Castiel said. “And you’re wrong about it being important to me, Dean; I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation, but I won’t allow you to make light of it, either.”

Dean looked away, but only for a few seconds, because then Castiel was there to force him to look at them again. “I’m not making light of it, okay? Maybe getting called a faggot isn’t ‘as bad’ if you’re straight or whatever, but it’s still pretty damned bad, all right? And, you know, I’m not saying I’m not gay: I’m saying _I don’t care_. If I like someone, I like them, if not, then I don’t. It’s just not a big deal to me.”

“So if a guy came on to you, you’d totally sleep with him?”

“I don’t know!” Dean protested. “I mean, if I liked him, I would, I guess.”

“Yeah, I meant, like, dating and stuff.”

“I don’t really date,” Dean said, hedging a little. “I’m kind of a slut, to be honest.”

“Huh.” Charlie looked summarily unimpressed. “Really?”

“Hey, I like sex. Nothing wrong with that.” Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then figured: _fuck it_. Wasn’t like he had anything to lose, right? “Besides, when you’ve just been caught giving head to the captain of the football team and he says it’s all right ‘cause I looked like a pretty fucking girl from that angle anyway, then it’s not so funny anymore, y’know?”

“You did not!” Charlie exclaimed. Dean couldn’t decide if she was horrified or the complete opposite. Castiel, on the other hand, looked weirdly blank in comparison.

“I was fourteen, dude was hot. And I’m way too curious for my own good, so, yeah. All I’m saying is, sometimes you don’t wanna be known as the pretty guy with the cocksucking lips, all right?”

“You took exception to being called a girl.”

“I took _exception_ to that fucking jerk being a raging asshole, Cas. I was at that school for three months and it was fucking hell just ‘cause this homophobic jerk—” Dean cut himself off, then glared sourly at Charlie and Castiel, still too close inside his bubble of personal space. “I need some fucking pie.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Dean, I want to apologize for my temper this Saturday. I fear issues regarding homosexuality in particular strikes a little too close to home for me. In addition, I am very particular about gender and gender identities. Charlie and I have noted your absence on the forum. _

_ It was not my intention to corner or question you. _

_ I understand dinner may also be an acceptable form of apology. _

_ Sincerely, Castiel _

-.-

The auto shop was ridiculously busy that week. Between getting up in the morning and passing out in bed at fucking _eight_ o’clock, Dean didn’t really have a life. It was fucking awesome in terms of extra cash he was hauling in, but he was way too exhausted to even appreciate it.

Also? He’d fallen asleep talking to Sammy on the phone not just once, but three days in a row. _Three_. That was seriously not cool.

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Hey man we’re cool. I get that not everyone is like me okay? I mean I say offensive stuff 24/7 and I won’t even know unless someone tells me kay? I’ve got the social skills of a fucking teaspoon or something. _

_ Work’s fucking hectic no time to do anything but fucking sleep. So tired man. _

_ Dean _

_ PS. Dinner is on. If you want to get on my good side a juicy bacon cheeseburger is the way to go. And pie I love pie. _

-.-

“Dean!”

“Hey, Sammy.”

“Please tell me you’re not gonna fall asleep on me again.”

Dean laughed. He was stretched out on the sofa, totally just vegging out to whatever crap there was on TV. “Ain’t making no promises.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, man, just been fucking busy.” Dean yawned loud and wide enough that his jaw popped. “Got the feeling you needed to talk about something, man. I’m all ears. Hit me.”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Mmmm.”

“It’s, like, in two weeks.”

“Mmm.”

“Dean, are you awake?”

“Yeah, man. Thanksgiving. So?”

Sam breathed out noisily, like, exaggeratedly so. “So, I think you should buy a turkey.”

“Why would I wanna do that?”

“‘Cause we’re not crashing at Bobby’s this year, okay? It’s you and me, and I want a turkey, okay?”

“You’re such a fucking brat, Sammy. Seriously, you’re the most spoiled princess in the whole world. _The whole world_ , Sammy.”

“Whatever.” Sam laughed. “So we need a pie and stuff, too.”

“Beer! We need lots of beer. Are you watching this?”

“Uh, no. Hang on, what channel?”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ IT’S THE APOCALYPSE! _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ IT’S A RED ALERT SITUATION! _

-.-

“So,” Jo drawled, kicking at his foot. “There’s this seriously angry, seriously hot chick asking for you out front.”

“Regular?” Dean asked.

“Nah, never seen her before. Redhead. Real cute.”

Dean blinked, then he slid out from underneath the car he was working on. “Hot and cute?” he asked.

For a moment, Jo looked startled, as if she hadn’t really thought about what she was saying, or where, or to whom, but then she kind of grinned and shook it off. “Hey! Gotta live up to some of the stereotypes about female mechanics, right?”

Dean chose to ignore that statement. “Drives a Vespa? Wears lots of layers?”

Jo nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“That’d be Charlie,” Dean said.

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ DEAN! SERIOUSLY, MOUNT DOOM HAS EXPLODED AND ALL THE CUTE LITTLE HOBBITS ARE TRAPPED INSIDE! _

-.-

Jo stopped him before he could go out, though, shouldering him to the side and stepping close. “Don’t tell the guys.”

“Dude, Ash won’t give a damn.”

“Wasn’t talking about Ash, dipshit.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ DEAN! _

-.-

When Dean made it out front, Charlie was pacing back and forth, muttering angry words under her breath. “Hey, girl.”

“Dean Winchester!” Charlie exclaimed. “I have an emergency on my hands and you won’t take a break and check your email? This is a matter of utmost urgency!”

Dean leaned back against the counter, eyebrow raised. “Let me guess. Your Vespa stopped working.”

“Yes! It won’t go forward, or back for that matter, but the lights are still on and it starts, I just can’t _drive_ it. I mean, it _rolls_ and the tank’s full and there’s oil in it and it was _fine_ one hour ago!” Charlie’s hair was a bit of a mess (all of her was, really), her helmet hung off her arm and she looked, yeah, kinda pissed. Not necessarily at Dean, but still.

“I’m not that good with mopeds, Charlie. I know cars, yeah, but they’re not really the same.”

“But, Dean! This is an emergency! I need to get to work and my boss won’t be happy if I can’t make it because I have important stuff that I need to do that is top secret. Help me, Dean, you’re my only hope.” Charlie stepped close, her hands clasped together and eyes way too wide. “Don’t make me go down on my knees.”

“One: you don’t say that to a guy who bangs chicks, Charlie.”

“Ugh, gross, Dean!”

“And two: how do you feel about blondes?”

Charlie took a step back, a shrewd expression on her face. “Blondes?”

Dean jerked his head in the general direction of the garage. “Like the chick who was here when you came in. Jo. She’s good with bikes. Might be good with mopeds, too.”

“Huh.” Charlie moved so she could look around Dean, trying to see through the dirty window in the door. Of course, it was too grimy, but Charlie didn’t know that. “She was cute,” Charlie said.

“Funny, she was saying the exact same thing,” Dean drawled.

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “Why are you still here?”

“Thought you were having an emergency.”

“Dean. Go fetch and don’t be a dick about it.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ I think I just hooked up Charlie with Jo. _

_ Dean _

-.-

“Dean,” Castiel said the next day as they were busy chopping some vegetable or other. Dean really had no clue what they were.

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Jo?”

“Chick at work.”

Castiel blinked. “I see.”

“She’s a good person. Fierce as fuck, which I guess you gotta be in a workplace with guys who’ve got too much testosterone. What is this shit, man?”

“Zucchini.”

“What?”

“Just chop it, Dean.”

Dean made a face but continued. If asked afterwards, Dean wouldn’t have a clue how he and Castiel got into the habit of eating together regularly (cooking together once every week or so). So, yeah, sometimes Charlie was there as well, but mostly she wasn’t. Mostly, it was just the two of them, and it was… nice. Really nice.

“We’re gonna have some meat with this too, right?”

“Chop, Dean.”

“Cas? We’re gonna— Cas!”

-.-

Thanksgiving was eventful. Dean wasn’t the best of cooks, but fixing a fucking turkey? Was way out of his league. Castiel had laughed himself into exhaustion when Dean’d asked him for help, but he’d eventually pulled himself together to fish out a recipe for him to use (full of notes, of course, because it wouldn’t be help from Castiel if there weren’t at least a dozen notations on it). Sam arrived the day before, then passed out on the couch and was basically no help whatsoever.

On turkey day, Dean punished his brother by putting him on washing up duty, ‘cause there was a fuck-ton of dirty dishes in the sink.

-.-

“This isn’t actually that bad,” Sam said after he’d had a careful taste of the turkey along with the pie.

“Gee, thanks for that back-handed compliment,” Dean groused. The turkey was a little bit scorched around the edges, the pie a little bit overdone, the mashed potatoes almost all right. “You try cooking a fucking turkey, man.”

“No, no, I’m not— Dean, I meant it was good. Hell, you remember when Dad tried to? He blew up the oven!”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, fucking hilarious.” Of course, then they’d had to run away ‘cause they didn’t have the cash to replace the oven or cover the insurance or whatever it’d been, so that bit hadn’t been as fun.

“So…”

“What?”

“You still hanging out with that Charlie chick?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, her and Cas. ‘Course, we’re all kinda busy with work, but, you know.”

Sam hunched his shoulders. “So, you’re not, like, dating her?”

Dean snorted. “No way, dude.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause dating’s not all that bad, you know? S’got its perks.”

Dean just shook his head. “Yeah, it’s not for me, okay? Why? You got something to tell me?”

Sam just grimaced and hunched his shoulders even more. “Thought maybe I did. Turned out, it was just me being stupid. Again.”

“Sammy—”

“No, Dean. I mean, we hadn’t talked about it or anything, but I kinda thought we, you know, had something special together, right? Like, if you have sex with someone regularly, just you and them, then… I mean, you don’t go around sleeping with other people, right?”

Dean shrugged. “Gotta be honest with you, Sammy: lots of people do. Me? I sleep around, yeah, but never more than once with the same person, right? But if it’s just you and this one other person then, yeah, it sucks if only one of you are monogamous about it, I get that, but if I did have a steady gig, then I wouldn’t go elsewhere for some action, either. But it doesn’t really matter, ‘cause it’s a shitty situation to be in.” Dean paused. “It wasn’t the druggy, was it?”

“No, Dean! No, it was… It was just someone in my study group, okay? I’ll get over it.”

-.-

Later that night they found themselves in a bar Dean’d never gone to before, mostly because it was Jo’s mom who ran it. It was loud and smoky, the music wasn’t too bad and the beer was cheap but good. All in all, Dean wondered why he hadn’t come here before, Jo’s mom notwithstanding.

“Well, if it ain’t Dean Winchester.” Jo’s grin was cheeky and sly. “Date night?”

Dean scoffed. “Bitch, he’s my brother.”

“I’m Sam,” he said over the din.

“This is Jo; we work together. Two beers, okay?”

Jo nodded, but she snuck a glance at Sam that said she clearly knew he wasn’t remotely old enough to drink (well, legally, anyway).

“Dude,” Sam hissed in Dean’s ear the moment Jo was far enough away she couldn’t overhear him. “Since when’re you capable of hanging out with chicks without being fucking stupid about it?”

Dean’s glare was so fucking unimpressed, Sam actually winced a little. “Dude, I have some self-restraint and respect, okay? You don’t sleep with people you work with, or your friends, or people you gotta see on a semi-regular basis, okay?”

Two bottles were put down a bit louder than necessary in front of Dean. Jo gave him an unimpressed look. “And I’d kick your fucking ass, Winchester.”

“Yeah, but that’s a given.” Dean winked at Jo, took his beers and handed over the cash. “How was your date?”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna be a perv about this, ain’t you?”

“What d’you think, Jo?”

“I think I’m not talking to you about it. Now go away before Mom comes over to check IDs, okay?”

“Are you even old enough to serve?”

“Shut up,” she said. Dean laughed, then dragged his brother with him to a table.

“You know, I don’t mind drinking coke,” Sam said, after he’d drained about half of his beer.

“Yeah, but you didn’t want a soda, did you?”

Sam smiled. “No, I didn’t. I— Fucking Christ, Dean.”

“What?”

Sam threw his head back and laughed, so Dean turned around to see what was so fucking hilarious and, okay, maybe it wasn’t that funny, really, but still – because there was Jo, and there was Charlie, and, yeah, it sure looked like their date had been a raging success – but did the kid seriously have to laugh? “C’mon, dude, even if I was into her, she’s, like, younger than you, man. And by the way: way too awesome.”

“Yeah, that’s totally why.”

“Yeah, Sammy, it totally is. That?” Dean motioned behind him with a thumb. “That is a bad idea.”

Sam’s eyes suddenly went very, very round. Then a third chair appeared at their table, and Charlie flopped herself down in it. “Hi, Dean, who’s your friend?” She leaned closer, smile still blinding and bright and two splotches of red on her cheeks. “It’s not a date, is it?”

“Well, Charlie, I don’t date my brother, how ‘bout you?”

Charlie scrunched her nose up. “Ugh, don’t be disgusting, Dean. I’m totally too awesome for that. Besides, I’m kind of an adopted only child who ran away from home, so, you know.” She cleared her throat, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Anyway. This is Sammy?”

“Sam, yeah,” Sam said. “Hi. Dean just refuses to admit I’m not twelve anymore.”

“Dude, in my heart you’ll forever be the little kid in the pink tutu—”

“That never happened!” Sam snapped, going red faster than you could blink. He kicked Dean in the shin under the table, and Dean kicked back. “We agreed to never talk about that,” he said, voice forced and strained.

“Nah, you agreed.” Dean grinned. “‘Sides, it’s my duty as an older brother to bring shit like that up.”

“Was it a school play?” Charlie asked. “My school once totally forced all of us to wear these horrible costumes. Like, they looked like kidneys, right? Because we were all beans. All of us. It was absolutely awful and hot and stuffy and then this one kid threw up, and, yeah. Awful.”

Sam’s smile relaxed a little, but not that much. “I was in a tutu because Dad made a mistake when he signed me up for after-school activities. Turns out, he couldn’t tell _ballet_ from _soccer_.”

Dean winced a little, because, yeah, that part of the story wasn’t as fun. Stories involving Dad rarely were, mostly because... Mostly because of what Dad’d had them do. As a kid, it was all games and sunshine, right? But then, when you’re, like, sixteen or something, with a gun aimed at your face because the package you were delivering wasn’t what the guy was waiting for, then, yeah. Then it ain’t that fun anymore. Of course, Dean still did it, because you don’t quit on your family (and he’d needed the cash that bad [or Dad had; Dean wasn’t sure on that one any longer]).

Sure, Dad made mistakes – Hell, everyone did – and Dean could even forgive Dad for most of them. All of them, even, except the ones that put Sammy in danger.

_{Take your brother outside as fast as you can; don’t look back! Now, Dean, go!}_

Except the one that landed Sam in the hospital.

Dean can’t forgive that one.

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Dean. _

_ My uncle is in town for a week. We will be at the Tangerine this Saturday afternoon.  _

_ You may join us. _

_ Sincerely, _  
_ Castiel _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Dude I’ll be there @ 2. _

_ Dean _

-.-

Sam stayed for the whole long weekend of Thanksgiving, then had Dean drive him back to Stanford late Sunday afternoon. Dean didn’t even mind the travel, ‘cause it’d been forever since he’d been able to just take his brother and his baby out on the road for a good long drive.

“We should take a road trip, Sammy.”

“Dude, our entire childhood was one long road trip.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking legitimate holiday here, Sammy. Cas is planning a vacation in, like, Europe or whatever and it got me thinking, you know? Just us on the road, seeing all there is to see. We’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, you know? Always wanted to go there. Or we could go to Mexico. Cheap booze and lots of sunshine.”

“Half-naked, half-drunk girls?”

“Didn’t know you were into that, little bro.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

“You love it, bitch.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Please don’t do that. _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Dude don’t h8 on my language c u 2moro _

_ jk I’m just messing with u cas _

_ u make it so easy _

_ xoxo _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Dean, that makes no sense. _

_ I will see you later today. _

-.-

The Tangerine, as it turned out, was some kind of a mix between a café and a bar. Or, to put it another way: it wasn’t the kind of place Dean’d ever put foot in voluntarily. Not because it was a hangout for gay dudes, but because of the soft, jazzy background music, the velvety, last century, European-ish furniture and the menu.

“Dude, why am I not surprised you like this place?” Dean asked when he sat down at the table Castiel had claimed. There was no sign of the uncle, but Dean figured he was around here somewhere.

Castiel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Dean snorted. “Everything? Dude, the music is hurting my ears.”

Castiel sort of huffed. “Oh, so it’s not stepping on your overcompensating heterosexual toes?”

Dean mock-glared at Castiel, because, seriously. “We talked about this, Cas. Also,” Dean trailed off, then dug out not one, but two slips of paper from his pocket. “I scored two numbers on the way over, which, yeah, is kinda weird even for me. But what the hell, right?”

“I want to ask but I’m afraid to do it.”

“You know what?” Dean glanced at the numbers, then tore the slips in half. “Me, too.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t. But I’m a big-ass, uh… Well, I want connection, okay? Not just random, faceless strangers in the night, right?”

Castiel just raised his eyebrow, and he might even have been smirking a little bit. “You were going to say girl, weren’t you?”

“I don’t want you to get all Smitey McSmiterson on me, so no, I am not gonna comment.”

“Except you totally were.” Castiel was casually amused, which sent all sorts of warning bells rushing through Dean’s head.

“Maybe.”

“I dislike it when you stereotype.”

Dean shrugged. “I’m an ass.”

“Yes, I know.” Castiel tapped the rim of his glass. His fingers were clean, smooth, except for the rims of dirt under his nails, in the dark cracks of his skin. “Seeking a connection with one’s sexual partner is not tied to your sex or gender, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know. So, uh, what kind of teacher are you?”

Castiel leaned back in his chair, legs crossed lightly at the ankle. “Horticulture. At the community college. Why?”

“Because your hands almost look like mine, which they usually don’t.”

Castiel blinked, then inspected their hands. “I was unaware you’d been looking at my hands, Dean.”

“Well, I’m a handsy kind of person,” Dean drawled, and then Castiel was just sort of looking at him, not turning away or blinking or anything.

It was at some point during their staring match that Castiel’s uncle made an entrance, and Dean only noticed because he heard Castiel say, “Gabriel,” what felt like out of nowhere. Except, of course, if he hadn’t been too busy looking at the guy’s way too blue eyes, then he’d have noticed both Gabriel pulling a chair out and sitting down, as well as Castiel opening his mouth in the first place.

“This is Dean,” Castiel said, and then he finally turned away, which meant that Dean could, too.

“Hey, man,” Dean said, reaching out with a hand across the table. “Gabriel, right?”

“Certainly,” Gabriel said, except his smirk was a mile wide. “So, are you the boyfriend, the boy toy, or the mechanic?”

Dean winked. “I come in lots of flavors, dude.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” Gabriel murmured.

Castiel cleared his throat, though, in that ‘I am supremely annoyed at you, cease and desist’ way of his. “Dean is a friend, Gabriel. He is also a mechanic. And—” Castiel caught himself. “Dean. I meant to ask how your Thanksgiving was.”

“Uh, good? Didn’t burn the turkey or the pie, and maybe the mashed potatoes were a bit runny, but we survived. Gotta say, after years of diner food it was definitely a step up. You guys have a good time?”

Gabriel nodded. “Oh, yeah, dude. There’s this strip joint in New Orleans.” Gabriel whistled. “There are no words, Dean, _no words_.”

“My ex’s sister always invites us,” Castiel said, glaring at Gabriel. “And we did not go to see strippers.”

“Speak for yourself, big boy.”

“Well, me and Sammy stuck with the Roadhouse. Jo was working and Charlie popped by.”

Castiel lit up at the mention of their friend – shit, _mutual_ friends, how weird was that? “And?”

“And good times were had by everyone,” Dean said. “Jo and Charlie especially. You shoulda come by.”

“I was in New Orleans.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hook up with any hot strippers, then? Hear New Orleans is just the place for that.”

“I did not. Gabriel, tell him I didn’t—”

“Front row seat,” Gabriel was saying over Castiel’s protests, a glint in his eyes. “Tucking dollar bills into G-strings and getting dicks shoved in his face. Little Castiel looked like he’d finally done it and gone to Heaven.”

Dean threw his head back and laughed. “Dude, I’da paid to see that.”

“This isn’t funny,” Castiel said.

Dean knocked their knees together and patted him on the shoulder. “‘Course it is, man. You gotta loosen up and laugh at yourself, or else life isn’t gonna be much fun. And seriously, I’d brave a plane just to see you finally let loose about something.”

“You hate planes.”

“Yeah, exactly. Anyway, I’m gonna go grab something. You guys want anything?”

-.-

Gabriel, Dean quickly came to learn, was completely bat-shit insane. So, of course, Dean liked him on the spot (and, no, Dean wasn’t sure if that feeling was mutual or if Gabriel was just messing with him).

-.-

“You flirt a lot,” Gabriel said when Castiel went off to use the bathroom.

“Huh?”

“You heard me, big fella.”

Dean shrugged, because he’d heard him, yeah. It was just… “I don’t notice it. I mean, it’s like it’s my default setting.”

“Uh-huh,” Gabriel said, and he sounded horribly unimpressed.

“Look, when your brother’s dinner hinges on you charming the motel owner, or the waitress at the diner, or the zombies in the school cafeteria, you do what you gotta do. Cas told me you took him in when he was fifteen, sixteen.” Dean cleared his throat. “My brother was fourteen. When I took him in. So. If me flirting with the dude at the gas station got us yesterday’s leftovers for free, well.”

“You did it. And kept on doing it.”

“And now I don’t even know I’m doing it.” Dean amended that with a, “Most of the time.”

“If you don’t intend to follow through, it’s my duty to tell you to knock it the fuck off, you getting me here? And as his uncle/dad/brother/best friend, it’s also my job to tell you to back the fuck off. So. Stop it, Winchester. You’re not getting him.”

Dean figured that was his clue to wake the hell up and figure out what the fuck he was doing. Problem was, of course, that he had no fucking clue.

-.-

Then, of course, Christmas started to encroach, and Sammy came home and stayed for a month. There were drunken New Year’s shenanigans, other shenanigans, and just drunken times, and then Sam went back to school a couple days before Dean’s birthday, leaving behind a cramped apartment that was suddenly fucking huge, dirty socks and a freaking mess on the kitchen counters and in the sink (just forget about the fridge, okay?).

In short, that was why Dean was standing on his own threshold, the door open, staring at Charlie who was wearing the coolest, geekiest party hat he’d ever seen, Jo and Castiel in tow behind her, when he really should’ve boarded up the place because it was a biological hazard zone.

His heart was all mushy and warm and swelling in his chest, but he was so fucking exhausted, too, and Jo knew why just as well as he did. “Guys,” he said.

“You do not get to throw us out on your own birthday, Dean Winchester,” Charlie said. “Which I had to _hack_ in order to find out, by the way. Not cool.”

“Jo?” Dean tried.

Jo slumped her shoulders. “Three freebies, man,” she said, and, yeah, Dean could totally get behind that. If his girlfriend bribed him with sex?

“Yeah, I’d bend over, too,” Dean said. “Come on in, then. But it’s a mess and I haven’t cleaned up after Sammy yet, so. It’s a health-risk zone.”

The girls zoomed straight past him into the apartment, but Castiel stopped right in front of him, so close their noses were almost touching, it felt like, and Dean was way too tired to step back. Castiel was gripping one of his shoulders tight, though, when he said, “You’re a stronger and braver man than me, Dean.”

Dean snorted. “Stupider is more like it.”

“Dean, refusing them would have been stupid. This is survival.”

“You’re not making sense.”

Castiel shook his head. “No, it’s been a busy week at work for me, too.” Then he said, “Happy birthday,” looking all soft and squishy around the edges, so Dean kind of had to cross the personal space boundaries they normally more or less kept to and hug the guy. It was a bit like holding a pillar of stone, albeit a soft, warm and breathing pillar of stone, but still.

“Cas, seriously, hugs ain’t lethal.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “I think you’d change your opinion if Gabriel— That is to say— I brought pie.”

“And there goes my concentration. Thanks, dude, really.”

“You’re welcome.” Castiel smirked. “It’s cherry.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t.”

-.-

So, yeah, having people over who weren’t Sam or Bobby was kind of new, and so was the whole cleaning spree they went on before Castiel would even sit down, but it wasn’t like Dean minded or anything.

And there was pie. Glorious pie. Cherry pie.

Charlie’d even brought a board game only she and Castiel’d ever played before, so they teamed up, and if Dean spent the night sitting way too close to Castiel, it was only because they needed to read and see the cards properly (and maybe ‘cause Jo and Charlie were all snuggly and vomity-cute).

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _ **_ ,  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _ **_ ,  _ ** _ [ **joharvelle@mail.com** ](mailto:joharvelle@mail.com) _

_ Thanks guys I think we can all agree that we had a fucking good time. _

_ Hangover’s gone now too. _

_ Later dudes _

_ Dean. _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ I think I speak for all of us when I say this: _

_ I hate you, Dean. May you rot in the lowest bowels of Hell. _

_ With utmost sincerity, _  
_ Castiel Smith _

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Nah dude don’t be a dick I’m adorable.  _

_ You love me. _

_ Dean. _

-.-

What with Rufus shifting the schedules around, and Castiel being an über-teacher at a college with shifting schedules every term, it suddenly became really hard for them to meet up. With Dean having his “weekends” on Fridays and Saturdays, and Castiel having his on Sundays and Mondays, their usual common days of time off didn’t exist anymore.

Dean hadn’t expected that to suck as much as it actually did, once their new schedules’d had time to sink in a bit and take effect. Suddenly, they couldn’t get together on Fridays after work, cook an insane amount of food, stay up way too late and have one beer too many, because Castiel had to be at school by nine the next day and teach a class at ten.

-.-

“It’s surprisingly boring,” Castiel said one day.

“Huh?”

“Friday nights, that is. I mean, unless Gabriel chose to come over, I cooked on my own before.”

Dean stared up at the rusty underside of Castiel’s car. “Maybe we should do breakfast or something,” he said. “I mean, I have the late shift on Sundays, so we could, is all I’m saying.”

There was a tug on Dean’s left foot, so he let himself be rolled out from underneath the car. There were probably smudges of grease and oil all over his face going by the way Castiel’s eyes flitted over him, but there wasn’t much he could do about that right now.

“I was going to propose Wednesdays. My classes finish early, and you’re usually done by five. Just because in the past we went beyond ordinary cooking doesn’t mean we always have to, right?”

“Yeah, we don’t,” Dean said. “But I kinda liked that, man.”

“Me too. But I’d rather compromise than quit.”

“I like breakfast. _Pancakes_ , man.”

-.-

Sometimes, running from something actually worked for real, no setbacks or anything or anyone catching up to you. Okay, so it wasn’t something that happened a lot, but Sammy was the shining example here, really – got out of a shitty situation, aced high school and took on the university lifestyle as a full-rider at Stanford. Dean made do with what he had, what he could turn his everyday life into.

Like being a mechanic. Dad’d taught him to look after the Impala, so it helped him get a job as one. Of course, out of everything Dad’d taught him, it was probably the only thing he couldn’t get sent to jail for.

Point was, sooner or later, everything caught up with you. Especially when your name’s Dean Winchester.

What he hated the most about that, though, was that it just had to fucking happen on a Sunday morning.

 _You don’t quit the life, son; it quits you_ , Bobby had told him more than once. It wasn’t that Dean hadn’t believed him, he’d just never really _wanted_ to believe him, you know?

When there was a knock on the door, Dean sent Castiel to get it because out of the two of them, he was the one who didn’t have his hands in a bowl mixing scones the old fashioned way.

“Dean Winchester?” a guy asked, and Dean turned around at the same time as Castiel said, “No.”

Once upon a time, just so much as the tiniest hint of law enforcement lurking nearby would’ve set Dean running as far and fast as he could in the opposite direction. Now, he had no fucking clue what to do (Hell, Sammy’d gone to the police, right, after he caught his roomie dipping his nose in the shit).

“Sir? Are you Dean Winchester?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m with the FBI,” the guy said, fishing a badge out of his suit. “Victor Henriksen.”

Dean moved closer at that, bowl held against his hip because it was easier than putting it down and washing his hands of the sticky dough. He checked the badge, noting all the tiny little details that Dad’d told him about, back when he’d been a kid, about how you made the best fake badges of them all. Of course, he couldn’t check the weight, but that’d simply have to slide.

“I can weigh it on those kitchen scales you boys’ve got out,” Henriksen said, eyebrow raised. “If that’d help set your mind at ease, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean got a smile out, then shook his head. “No, that’s fine. Besides, it’s covered in butter.”

“Now, if you don’t mind answering some questions. When’s the last time you spoke with your father?”

Dad’d had this policy when it came to Big Brother asking questions: lie, evade and persuade (worst case scenario: intimidate the hell out of them, then leg it in the opposite direction). Sam was a pro at the “who? Me? I’m a harmless puppy” gig, but Dean’d always been the better con man of the two; Sam always overplayed it. This time, though, he had basically no fucking clue what was going on.

Guess that’s what happened when you were out of the game for five fucking years.

“Why?”

“Is there a reason you don’t want to answer my question, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean shook his head. “Just curious, sir. Ain’t a crime, is it?”

“Not yet, no. Obstruction of justice is. Did you know that?”

“Dean,” Castiel said. “Perhaps you should answer the question.”

“January twenty-four, back in ‘97,” Dean said, glancing at Castiel. He was still by the door, looking confused as hell, yeah, but if there was one thing Dean knew he could count on when it came to the guy, it was his sheer sense of stubbornness.

“That’s very specific.”

“Was my birthday, what can I say?”

Henriksen made a clucking noise. “Where is your brother?”

“None of your business,” Dean snapped.

“It is. I’m the FBI agent here, Mr. Winchester. You’re the guy being questioned. I can make it official and bring you in if you need me to. Where is Sam Winchester?”

“Why?”

“You’re his guardian, isn’t that right? Boy only turned eighteen last year, so by law you’re required to know, aren’t you? To take care of him, provide for him. Where is he?”

At some point, Castiel had closed the door and moved over to stand way too close next to Dean. Right now, he was doing that staring thing he did, eyes all focused and intense. “Should you not know if you’re FBI?”

“Mr. Winchester is very good at covering his tracks, Mister…?”

“Smith. Castiel.”

Dean looked away. “It’s been five years, man. Why’re you guys interested now?”

“Because, Mr. Winchester, someone recently burned down three houses in rural Kentucky. Now, where is your brother?”

Dean knew what a punch in the gut felt like, and it still didn’t have anything on how he was feeling right then, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t kept up with the years passing by, it was just that when he put his mind to something he didn’t do it halfway. He ran from the life Dad’d raised him to five years ago, and he’d never looked back. “Safe. He’s safe.”

“When did you last speak with him?”

“Last night.”

“Is he anywhere in the Kentucky region?”

Dean shook his head. “No.”

“Is your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mr. Winchester, what happened five years ago?”

Dean turned around and went over to the sink. His hands were so fucking messed up by the sticky dough, it felt like he’d never get clean. His heart was racing, his breathing erratic, and he felt like a fucking newbie all over again. Shit, hadn’t Dad trained him to be better than this? To be the best fucking soldier there ever was?

“Mr. Winchester, I won’t ask again.”

“Yeah, you will,” Dean said without turning around. The water was almost too hot as he rinsed his hands. “You’ll ask until I answer, ‘cause I ain’t done nothing you can bring me in for without getting into more trouble yourself and you know it just as well as I do.”

“My uncle is a lawyer,” Castiel said then. “Do I need to call him?”

“No,” Dean and Henriksen said at the same time. Henriksen gave Dean a look that was sly and amused. “I think me and Mr. Winchester understand each other perfectly. Don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “How’d you know where I was, if you can’t find Sam?”

“Unlike your brother, you never did have a clean record, Mr. Winchester.” Henriksen lifted an eyebrow. “Your tracks were simply larger. It means there’s more to cover up, when you hide from the law.”

Dean frowned. “My records were sealed.”

“I am the FBI, Mr. Winchester.”

-.-

When Dean was seventeen, he spent three months in juvie. After, when they let him out and he “stayed on good behavior,” the judge in charge promised to seal Dean’s record. The judge was shady as fuck, but he’d had Dad help him out with a “problem,” and there was only so far you could bend the law; a sealed record was the best deal the judge could offer in exchange for Dad’s silence.

Dean suspected that was it for Sammy – that was when his baby brother lost his faith in Dad: when he let Dean go down for something that, at the root of it, was all Dad’s fault.

Dean lost his faith in Dad the day Sammy landed in the ICU.

-.-

“Dean,” Castiel said when the door closed behind Henriksen. Part of Dean wanted to search the place top to bottom for hidden bugs, irrational and stupid as the idea was (it was illegal, and not something the “good” guys got up to).

“How good is Charlie at hacking?”

“She says Charlie isn’t her real name,” Castiel answered after a short pause. “You need to get her very drunk to even talk about it. Why? Dean. What’s going on?”

Dean ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to my face, Dean.”

Dean was halfway through “I wasn’t,” before Castiel’s raised eyebrows had him shutting his mouth again. “When I was four, my house burned down,” he said instead, gaze focused on a dirty spot on the floor. “Dad put Sammy in my arms and told me to run. He went back for Mom. She didn’t make it.” His tone was wooden even to his own ears, but that night still hurt, still festered like a wound inside him if he dwelled on it too long; if he _let_ _it_ dwell for too long. “I don’t know how, but Dad figured out it hadn’t just happened to Mom. The fires’ve happened all over the US, every sixth year like clockwork.”

“You were raised on the road,” Castiel said.

“Yeah. ‘Cause Dad was obsessed with finding Mum’s killer. I was, too, you know? Did everything Dad asked, soaked up everything he told me like a fucking sponge, wanted to be exactly like him. Dad was my hero.” Dean took a deep breath, then another. “And then he screwed up, and everyone said Sammy wasn’t ever gonna wake up again.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “Why was the FBI here?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s been six years,” he answered.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid. Dean, _why was he here_?”

“‘Cause of Dad’s crusade, all right?” It was a white lie, but still a lie, and he couldn’t quite keep looking Castiel in the eye. “Wherever there was a fire, Dad was. ‘Course that’s gonna pop up on somebody’s radar, man.”

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Why did he want to know where Sam is?”

Dean looked away, and didn’t turn back until Castiel came over and physically made him, fingers light and sure on his jaw. “Dean?”

“The fire was in his nursery. This psycho, he sets the fires in the nurseries. Most of the time, the kids… Sam made it, most don’t. I guess they think Sam could be a target, be in danger, ‘cause he’s the one that got away. In a way, he’s safer if the FBI don’t know where he is, ‘cause if _they_ don’t, then the psycho probably don’t either. Then again, if they know where I am, then it’s not that hard to figure out where Sam is.”

“Okay,” Castiel said. “What record was Henriksen talking about?”

“Cas—”

“Dean.”

Dean looked away then back again. Castiel was, well. He wasn’t angry, which was the most important bit. He didn’t look hurt, either, or upset. He did look stubborn, though, and nosy as fuck, and he was still too close. “Dad messed up, I took the fall.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“Maybe I don’t wanna talk about it, Cas,” Dean said.

Dean hadn’t really expected it to work – because, come on, when did that ever work? – but Castiel nodded. “All right.”

“Just like that?”

Castiel looked away. “We all have things we don’t want to talk about. Granted, the worst my secrets ever did was get me beat up. Not thrown in prison.”

“Juvie.” Castiel blinked. “Three months,” Dean added.

“Oh.”

“Wait— is Gabe really a lawyer? I thought he was a hippie or something.”

Castiel’s cheeks went red and he coughed. “In theory. Most of the time, he travels and paints things. And bakes. He bakes a lot.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ What’s this shit Cas is talking about? _

-.-

They were at Castiel’s chosen place of hangout this week; they’d been at Charlie’s the week before and it was Dean’s turn to pick next time.

Charlie eyed them both. “So, you guys actually have set date-nights?”

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t bother correcting her. “Cooking is way more fun when you’re two, and whoever supplies the kitchen gets a boatload of leftovers. Win-win, really.”

Of course, they weren’t date nights (or mornings, for that matter) because that’d imply that he and Castiel were, well, _dating_ (which they weren’t). “Cas said you were a hacker, Charlie.”

Charlie shrugged. “Yeah?”

“Actually, he said to watch out for you, ‘cause you could steal everything I am from my computer or something.”

“If you actually put any information about yourself on it I would,” Charlie said. To be honest, it almost looked like she was pouting. “Except you don’t use it for _anything_ personal or private. Except for all that porn surfing you do, which, honestly.” She shuddered. “Did _not_ need to know that.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have hacked me, girl.”

“I was bored, Dean. You were all busy with Sam and working all the time. A girl has _needs_.”

Castiel looked a little pale, though, when he leaned forward, eyes narrowed and mouth tense. “Have you hacked my personal files as well?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Of course not, stupid. You actually _talk_ about yourself, unlike Dean _Silence is My Middle Name_ Winchester, over there. Do you even know his middle name or where he grew up, or even if his last name is _actually_ Winchester?” She shook her head, and Dean grinned and winked at her. She stuck her tongue out. “But anyway, what do you need me to hack?”

“The FBI database, I guess,” Dean said, and Charlie’s mouth fell open. “No, seriously, I don’t know. I need you to hide my brother, though. Can you do that? Make him more invisible than he already is? Re-route his credit card, his phone, his bills. Stuff like that.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want them to find him ‘cause of me, man, but I don’t want to stop talking to him, either, you know?”

Castiel leaned in close again, pressed against Dean’s side and almost in Charlie’s face across the table. “The FBI came to his apartment,” he said. “I hadn’t even done anything, and yet I felt strangely violated by the intrusion.”

“Dude, I haven’t done anything either,” Dean protested, which prompted both Castiel _and_ Charlie to just give him this _look_ that Dean seriously didn’t think was warranted or anything. “Lately,” he added because, okay, he could take a hint. “I haven’t done anything _lately_.”

“Dean,” Charlie said, amused as fuck. “First time we got drunk together you told me how to run a successful credit card scam. Which, okay, I could totally have figured that one out myself even if I wasn’t a totally awesome hacker, but then you picked the lock to get into my building, and, no, I can’t do that. In real life, anyway.”

“You regularly visit a shooting range,” Castiel added.

“Shooting’s not a crime, man.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel allowed. “You’re very good, though.”

“He’s _scarily_ good,” Charlie corrected. “It’s, like, if we’re RPG-ing, then Dean’s the sneaky assassin thief, right?”

“No, I’m the badass— Hey, aren’t rogues cooler than warriors anyway?”

“Totally,” Charlie agreed. “I’d be an elf magician, _so_ awesome. The pointy ears are so cool.”

“I’d be a shadow rogue, I think,” Castiel said. “Or possibly a warrior. Which, of course, has no bearing on our current conversation. Charlie—”

“Yeah, no problem. Been a while since I had a good challenge, anyway. Let me tell you, IT is really boring when you can’t even do the fun stuff.”

“Your definition of fun being illegal,” Castiel said, his mouth softly curled in amusement. “Am I the only one whose only crime was not being hetero-normative?”

“Probably, yeah.” Charlie fished out a laptop from her bag, which finally explained why she was always toting around a bag that big wherever she went. “So, your brother’s name is Sam Winchester? No middle name?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Email? Phone number? Social security number? Birthdate? Current residence?”

Dean rattled it off, fake numbers and real ones, then sat back to watch as Charlie hacked into a nearby unprotected network and proceeded to systematically wipe every electronic trace of his brother from the face of the planet. It wasn’t until then that Dean dug his phone out and sent a text off to his brother.

_ hey so what did leia say to han when they went to that planet _

**_ Oh, *that* planet. _ **

_ bitchy _

**_ Jerk-face. Fly casual? _ **

_ no that was han _

**_ It’s a trap? _ **

_ too easy _

**_ You’re a geek, Dean. _ **

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean looked up at Castiel, then down at the text messages he and Sam were exchanging. “Uh. Just checking in on Sammy.”

Castiel quirked an eyebrow, then calmly plucked Dean’s phone from his hand and read through their text message history. “This makes no sense.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said and stole his phone back.

_ you’re the one using grammar in texts freak _

**_ Because I’m not illiterate _ ** _. _

“Don’t write anything about what’s going on in a text, Dean!” Charlie snapped. Her head popped up from behind her screen, and she was glaring. “That’s, like, _begging_ for the Eye of Sauron to see you. Like, you’re putting on the Ring on _purpose_.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not.”

“Good boy,” she muttered, then she was gone again amid the occasional mutterings and the constant, never ceasing tap of keys under her fingers. “Go buy your boy a drink instead of doing something _stupid_ , like inviting _the whole of Mordor_ into your backyard.”

Dean blinked. Castiel reached out for the phone again, and Dean let it go. “I want a Guinness. Go, fetch.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Castiel, well. His expression told fucking epic stories of pain and death and suffering, so Dean gathered his pride, his money and went off.

And since when was Castiel his boy, anyway?

-.-

“So, you come here often?” a voice drawled in Dean’s ear. “Pretty thing like you, a girl would notice.”

Dean pulled his shoulders back, then turned and smirked. So maybe guys in drag weren’t Dean’s usual idea of a good time if he were on a cruise for that sort of entertainment.

“Nah, just every now and then,” Dean said, letting a grin sneak out. “Got a friend who likes it here, though, and what can I say? I’m a sucker for happy endings.”

The drag queen moved a bit closer. “When you say friend…” Queenie ran painted, long fake nails over Dean’s arm. “What kind of friend do you mean?”

“I dunno, sweetheart, what kind do you think?” The bartender came back with his beers and Dean paid him.

“Here,” Queenie said, sliding over a folded napkin. “If you’re looking for a good time later.”

-.-

If you asked Dean, he’d say the glare on Castiel’s face was a bit over the top. Of course, going by the fact that _Castiel was glaring_ , Castiel himself probably wouldn’t agree with Dean on that one.

“If that queen gave you a number, burn it,” Castiel said the moment Dean sat down, beers in hand. “Now. In fact, I’ll help you do it.”

Dean laughed. “Dude—”

“I’m serious, Dean.” Castiel’s eyes were hard and focused. “Give it to me.”

“What if I wanna call her – him? What do you call them, anyway?”

“ _Queens_ ,” Castiel said. “I’m sure someone around here has a lighter.”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted. “Sit back, drink your beer and relax, okay?”

“But—”

“Drag queens aren’t really my kind of thing, man. It’s the nails, I think. Fucking fake nails.” Dean shuddered.

Castiel stared at him, suspicion and a glimmer of amusement warring in his eyes. “What is your kind of thing, then, Dean?”

Dean shrugged, because, really, it wasn’t that he had a specific “type” or anything, it was more tactile than that. “Generally, I kinda want to know the person, you know? Or at least like them on a basic level. If I can’t even stand to listen to their voice, then it’s a goner. Same if I can fucking stand to look at their mugs. How about you?” Dean winked and sipped his beer – some dark, imported brand he’d taken a fancy to. “How do you like your men?”

“Over and easy,” Castiel quipped. Dean laughed, Castiel smirked, and then he went on to say, “I like them honest, strong and with an affinity for classic rock. Caring. Warm. Possible attitude problems. It doesn’t hurt if they are in an unhealthy relationship with their car, either, I suppose.”

Dean blinked, because, seriously, that last bit? That was kind of oddly specific and not really all that likely to— “Oh.”

Suddenly it was as if Castiel was everywhere at once, pressing in on Dean from every angle and corner of the room.

“Would you go out with me, Dean?” Castiel asked, frank as always and yet it felt like Castiel had never been as serious about anything they’d ever talked about before.

“But we’re friends,” Dean said, and he had rules about this sort of thing – very specific rules, really, it was just hard to remember them when Castiel was close like this, looking him in the eye without blinking or a hint of doubt or subterfuge in them – rather, Castiel’s eyes were _honest_ and _warm_ , and it did funny things to Dean’s insides.

“Yes. I would like to be more.”

“Why?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Why? I like you, you’re reasonably attractive and you drive a nice car. I suppose I could do better in terms of personality and taste in movies, but I’ve always believed I shouldn’t be too greedy or ask for impossible miracles.”

Dean gaped. “Dude, I’m adorable,” he blurted, which really wasn’t the point.

Castiel’s eyes softened. “Yes, you are. Do you like me?”

“Of course I like you, Cas,” Dean said. His heart was really beating up a storm underneath his breastbone, and it was discomfiting as fuck. “I just. _Seriously_?”

“Why wouldn’t I like you, Dean? Let’s be reasonable about this: I tell you I’m wary of letting strangers into my home, you give me all the information I need to ‘seduce’ you in terms of food; I tell you I’m gay, you tell me you have sexual relations with whomever you care for. You read books featuring homosexuality because I recommend them to you. We cook together. You allow me to… to be free with myself in a way I have rarely dared to be. You don’t shy away if I sit too close, or stare too long, or touch you. You welcomed me in where others have slammed doors in my face. Dean, why _wouldn’t_ I like you?”

“Because I’m an ass,” Dean got out. His face felt like it was burning, and his ears were probably that fucking shade of red that always made Sammy laugh until he wet himself. “I’m a dick and I don’t think before I speak, and I don’t get half the shit you say, and I’ve got no fucking clue why you get angry when I say Sammy’s a big fucking princess ‘cause he’s all emotional and likes Disney movies and crap—”

Castiel kissed him.

And okay, yeah, Dean could roll with that.

-.-

“I dislike it because you equate ‘princess’ with ‘emotions.’ _Women_ with emotions. Emotions aren’t tied to gender, Dean. We’ve discussed this before.”

“Yeah, no,” Dean disagreed. “ _You’ve_ discussed it tons of times. I just don’t get what the big deal is. What’s it matter if I call my brother a big girl?”

Castiel pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. “Imagine that he _was_ a ‘big girl,’ Dean. Only that, to others, he appears as he is today: a man on the outside.”

“Yeah?” Dean frowned. “So?”

“Don’t you think he would feel hurt that you were constantly belittling him? Beating down on his sense of self-worth?”

“Are you saying Sam’s a cross-dresser, like, a tranny or something?” Dean said, and Castiel’s face shuttered in a split second.

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” Charlie snapped, popping up from behind her laptop. “Seriously, you need to take a class on gender studies or something. God! Cas – wash his mouth out with soap or something.”

“What did I say?” Dean asked. “Cas?”

“That’s… extremely derogatory,” Castiel said, his voice more monotone than anything else. “And prejudiced, and hurtful.”

Dean winced, then put a finger under Castiel’s chin to get the guy to look at him. “Is this like the faggot thing again?”

“Yes.”

“I told you I’m an ass, dude. And a dick. But, c’mon, I grew up in motels and truck stops, basically—”

“Why am I not surprised, Dean?” Charlie said. “You have all the social skills of a ghast.”

-.-

**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _

_ Read this:  _ _ [ A GUIDE TO BEING AN ALLY ](http://issuu.com/carlysoos/docs/lets_talk_about_sexuality_and_gender/1) _ _. _

-.-

“Hey, Charlie?”

“What?”

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh, could you find someone who hasn’t used his real name in twenty years? Like, officially, I mean.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, man. S’just, that Fed was asking about my dad. I haven’t talked to him in years, not since… Anyway, could you find out if he’s okay without alerting the media about it?”

“Please, Dean; I’m a professional. I can hack anything.”

Dean smiled. “Was hoping you’d say that. So, what do you need?”

-.-

**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ Found a restaurant. Youre not answering your phone so I guess youre busy. _

_ Pick u up @ 6 on sat. _

_ Dean _

-.-

Probably, no one was more surprised that his first date with Castiel wasn’t a total disaster than Dean himself was. Yeah, he’d been on dates before, sort of, it was just that Dean’s “dates” usually took place in a bar right after Dean’d hit on someone, or the other way around, and ended when they’d fucked each other silly. This thing with Castiel was different.

For one, Dean had known the guy for months now. For another, Dean actually _liked_ him. As a rule, educated/rich people had looked down their noses at Dean all his life, for one reason or another, but Castiel didn’t.

Castiel looked at him as if Dean was the best thing that’d ever happened to him, which was just way too disconcerting (especially because Dean sometimes thought in the secrecy of his own mind, late at night in bed, that Castiel [and Sammy and Charlie and all the other people he’d met after he split from Dad] was maybe the best thing that had ever happened to him).

So, yeah, Dean took them to this Italian restaurant Ash had been talking nonstop about lately, backed up by Jo and Rufus both. And, while Castiel _was_ wearing his trench coat, he was also in one of those shirt/waistcoat and slacks combos that looked really, really unfairly good on some people (read: Castiel).

“You look good, man,” Dean said when he picked Castiel up at his place.

Castiel’s smile was pleased and proud at once. “Thank you, Dean. You also look good, but you always do, so I think I would be more surprised if you hadn’t looked good, which would have been more of a miracle than anything.” Castiel snapped his mouth shut. “Sorry. I think I’m a bit nervous.”

“Chill, man,” Dean said, even though he’d been running around his apartment for an hour basically freaking out not that long ago himself. “It’s just us, going out, having a bite. Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“We’ve never been on a date before, Dean. It’s different.”

Dean coughed, maybe a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, I know. Uh, so I picked Italian. There’s this place downtown, can’t remember the name now, but a couple guys at work said it was good, so, you know. Might not be a disaster. Food wise, that is, ‘cause you’re always a joy to be around— I mean—”

“Yes,” Castiel drawled. “You’re clearly not nervous at all, are you?”

Dean’s laugh was short and a little too loud. “Dude, I used to be so smooth, you know? I’ve _never_ been nervous to go out with anyone my whole life. Except, I’ve never really dated, so maybe that’s it, I don’t know. Aren’t you not supposed to talk about that shit anyway?”

“I prefer honesty, and I already like you anyway,” Castiel said as Dean slid his car into a parking space.

Dean grinned at that. “Yeah, feeling’s mutual. Just…”

“What?”

Dean leaned across the seat, then kissed Castiel. “For good luck,” he said when he pulled back.

-.-

Time with Castiel was always awesome, so of course being on an actual, real date with the guy was exactly that, too: awesome. Castiel laughed, he stared too long and he was always brutally honest with his words – all as per usual. But then Dean would catch himself staring, and then he’d get this _soft_ look from Castiel, or he’d kick out with his foot to punish Castiel for something, and Castiel would snug their feet together under the table and smile to himself. 

“This is nice, Dean,” Castiel said at one point. “This. Being here, with you. It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, because he couldn’t find anything else to say, not when Castiel was looking at him like that again, and, yeah.

Dean was probably completely gone on this guy.

-.-

Usually, Dean was the kind of guy who put out on the first date (if he went on dates at all, that is). He’d kind of thought that now that he and Castiel were going out that he’d be getting some on a regular basis. Of course, no one told Castiel that.

“No,” Castiel said.

“Huh?”

“I don’t have sex on the first date.”

Dean frowned. “Isn’t that what the first date is all about?”

“Dean, it’s about getting to know each other in a romantic sense.”

“Yeah, which is why you have sex.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, then slapped Dean over the back of his head. “It’s about _talking_ , _sharing_ and _establishing_ _boundaries_ , Dean.”

“Then what’s sex about?”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

So, yeah, Dean could take a hint. Still, that didn’t mean he was just gonna let the guy go without getting a taste in. So he grabbed hold of Castiel’s shoulders – and, shit, but Castiel was always so much skinnier than he looked under all his baggy layers, shoulders narrow as fuck – and hauled him in.

“Dean—” Castiel started, and was then shut up.

Maybe the kiss wasn’t the best kiss there ever was, but it was more than good enough. In fact, by the time they actually pulled apart, Dean’d kind of forgotten about the whole no-sex deal Castiel wanted them to try out.

“Hi,” he said.

Castiel’s smile was shy and small and precious. “Hello, Dean.”

“Goodnight?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.”

Dean kissed him again, because he couldn’t _not_. “Goodnight,” he said when Castiel pushed him back a little.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _

_ I had a good time, Dean. I may yet trust you to find respectable restaurants for a while longer, but I thought we could cook something together again. I admit, I find myself missing it. _

_ Sincerely, _  
_ Castiel _

-.-

“I’m not the guy to ask for advice about this, dude.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “It’s not rocket science.”

“No, I mean, I’ve never had a pet in my life. You’ve already got the hang of it, y’know?”

There were rows upon rows of cages lining the room. Half of them were empty, but the ones with occupants were more than noisy enough to make up for that. There were dogs and cats – which Dean had been expecting to find at a shelter – but then there were the rabbits, the hamsters and rats and who even knew what the hell all those other rodents were called.

“Maybe I need someone to help me carry things,” Castiel said as he went down the aisle. Dean waited by the door, watching, as Castiel walked back and forward a couple of times. In the end, Castiel kneeled in front of one of the smaller cages and peered inside, and Dean took that as his cue to walk over.

“Thought you said _one_ pet, dude.”

There were two guinea pigs inside the cage, curled up tight together by the food bowl. Dean made the mistake of looking at Castiel, though, and the guy’s eyes were that wide, imploring blue. “How could I separate them, Dean?”

“I didn’t say you should, man. I just repeated what you said before we walked in here: ‘ _Dean, under no circumstances are you to let me walk out of here with more than one pet_ ’,” Dean said, making a passable job of imitating Castiel. “That’s two.”

“They’re sisters, Dean. Look at them.”

“I see them, dude.”

Castiel, in a clear violation of the rules printed out on signs on all of the cages, stuck his fingers in between the bars and petted the animals inside. Which, of course, prompted them to wake up and make all sorts of grumbling, squeaky noises as they sniffed at Castiel’s fingers and allowed him to pet them.

“I want these, Dean.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes. It would be cruel to separate them.”

“Of course it’d be,” Dean muttered under his breath, then grinned when Castiel glared at him. “The one with the big ass ridge down its back is Dragon, okay?”

Castiel huffed a laugh. “In that case, I feel obliged to name the other one Hylocereus.” Dean didn’t even get the chance to ask before Castiel butted in with, “It’s the genus dragonfruit belongs to.”

“You’re such a geek, Cas. Don’t ever change, okay?”

“I won’t,” Castiel promised. “Now, I will guard Dragon and Hylocereus while you find an attendant.”

Dean laughed, but did as ordered.

-.-

**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **charliebradbury@mail.com** ](mailto:charliebradbury@mail.com) _  
**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _ **_ ,  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

__ OMG, guys! How cute is that!  


-.-

Dean’s new schedule messed up things with Sammy, too, ‘cause suddenly they didn’t have time off together anymore. Then again, Dean reasoned, half the reason Sam came over to spend the weekend was probably ‘cause he needed to sleep off stress or something. On the other hand, his little brother tended to show up as soon as he could after his classes were over and done with for the week.

“I could come get you at school,” Dean offered after having picked Sam up from the station.

“Yeah, no. You can drive me back. It’s cool.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause I work Sundays now, but I’m off on Fridays, you know? It wouldn’t be a problem, is all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s easier this way in case something happens at school.” Sam shrugged, then grinned. “So why did Charlie send me two thousand pictures of guinea pigs that you apparently ‘adopted’ with Cas?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “‘Cause that chick’s crazy.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Sam said. He shifted a little, then sat back so he had fucking front row seats to watching Dean. “You know, ever since I found out Charlie was going out with Jo, I’ve been expecting you to make some really crude joke about it.”

Dean glanced at him, then looked back at the road. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like, I’ve grown up with you coming up with all these horrible, crass lines about all the chicks you perv on. I mean, you do, Dean. I’m just saying—”

“Yeah, no, I get you.” Dean cleared his throat. “So, you think I’m a sexist, chauvinist bastard?”

Sam laughed. “Bastard, yes. Rest of it? No, not really. More of a sleazy opportunist, you know?”

“Right, so why is it so weird I have some fucking respect for my friends, man? Dude, I went to fucking _Pride_ with you without hitting on even _one_ lesbian, you know. I’m not an idiot.”

“You never asked why,” Sam said after a while.

“Huh?”

“About why I wanted to go. To Pride. You were supposed to— You never asked why.”

Dean shrugged. “Figured you had a school project or a gay friend or something. Didn’t think it was any of my business, or you’d have said something, right?” Sam didn’t say anything. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam kind of exploded at that. “Dude, you’re always calling me a fucking girl, man, and you make fun of me for wanting to talk or be open about how I fucking feel, or what kind of movies I watch! Why’d I wanna give you more material, huh?”

So, yeah, Dean figured, maybe this was what Charlie and Castiel had been on about all along, about casual comments hurting the worst because you had no idea they were hurtful in the first place. That was just swell, wasn’t it? Fucking fate or karma or whatever coming back to bite him in the ass.

“You gay, Sammy?”

“No! I’m bisexual, okay? And that’s _okay_ , there’s nothing wrong with it, it doesn’t make me a fucking ‘girl’ or a faker or indecisive or greedy or some shit or anything, all right?”

“Yeah, no.” Dean cleared his throat. “Do you think I need to take a gender studies class?”

“ _What_?!”

“It’s just, Charlie and Cas say I have no fucking tact. Or clue. When it comes to everything that’s not, uh, hetero-normative, right? So Charlie’s kinda been on my case about that a lot lately. Apparently, I do this thing where I hurt people without meaning to because I’m a clueless fucking bastard or something. I don’t know, man. Words hurt and I never learned which ones to stay away from. I never cared, right? So I never picked up on that.”

-.-

In the end, Dean took them to the Tangerine, and Sam gave him such a bitchface when he figured out what kind of place it was. “Dude, if this is your idea of a joke—”

“No, Sammy. No.” Dean shifted. “This is Cas’ favorite place in town. They’ve got great beer, and the food’s not too bad – seriously, their cheesesteak sandwiches are delicious—”

“Hang on,” Sam said. “ _This_ is where you come _with Cas_? A _gay_ bar. _You_. _With_ _Cas_. Since when?”

“Since forever? Think the first time was when his uncle was in town.” Dean fidgeted nervously with his napkin.

Sam just looked at him, like he thought Dean was slow on the uptake or something, or maybe just being an idiot again.

“I’m dating Cas, okay?”

“You’re not gay,” Sam said.

“What?”

“Cas is a guy, Dean.”

Dean frowned. “Yeah, dude, I know that.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “So…”

“What?”

Sam leaned in closer over the table. “You don’t care about that? Mr. Overcompensating Macho Straight you?”

Dean glared, because, seriously, why was everyone telling him that? “Since when don’t I know my own damn mind, Sam? I like Cas, period – so he’s got a dick, so what? And I’m not gay or bisexual or what the fuck ever, okay? I don’t care about shit like that. Charlie says that makes me poly or pan or something. I don’t know, man. I mean, I didn’t know it was such a big deal for you, okay, or, I dunno, I’d have said something sooner, maybe, but I’ve never understood what the big fucking deal was. Ever.”

“Never?” Sam asked, and his voice was uncharacteristically low. “I mean, you never…?”

Dean shrugged. “I think part of it was to do with Dad making you my responsibility, you know? I did whatever it took to make sure you never wanted for anything. Guys, chicks: I never looked at their bits, man, I never cared and I never realized I should, either, I just sweet-talked them until they did whatever I needed right then.”

“Dean, I’ve never seen you flirt with guys.”

“Bitch, I flirt all the time.”

Dean got up to get their food somewhere around then, and a pitcher of coke to share between them because this place wasn’t the least bit lax with their ID checking.  
  
“But seriously, you’re dating Cas?”

Dean nodded, cheeks stuffed full with food.

“Since when?”

Dean shrugged, feeling his ears heat up a little. “Since he clued in on me being a clueless dick, basically. I mean, we’ve been having cookouts together for months, right, almost since the first time I met the dude, but I figured that was just something friends did. Except, I never do it with anyone else, so, you know. Anyway, we’ve been on a couple of dates now, testing the ground, so. It’s… okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Never really dated anyone before,” Dean said, then. “So it’s not like I’ve got anything to compare it to or whatever, but, yeah, it’s good.”

Sure, there was that weekend he’d spent in bed with Lisa, or the couple of weeks he’d been with Cassie, but out and out dated? For real? With no holdbacks or threats of maybe having to move at an hour’s notice? No, that part was all new, and scary as fuck.

“Yeah, I guess. You had hook-ups in high school and I tried to date.” Sam smoothed the condensation away from his glass. “I want to meet him, though. I mean, I’ve heard a lot about him before and you guys always make him sound like someone I’d like, you know? So, when do I get to meet him?”

“That’s really a no-brainer,” Dean said. “You ain’t ever meeting him.” He grinned at Sam’s predictable bitchface. “No, seriously, I have no idea. Our schedules clash even more than _ours_ do, so, you know. It’s busy. I mean, he’s got classes on Saturdays and a lot of evenings this period, and I work Sundays but have Saturdays off. It’s not ideal, is what I’m saying.”

Sam leaned back, did that little ‘huh’ thing he did when he was surprised but kind of pleased, too, and raised his eyebrows. “You’re not ashamed of him?”

“What do you mean? Cas is a great guy, man. If anything he should be ashamed of me.”

“Just, a lot of guys are real dicks about being open and honest about who they’re seeing when that person is a guy.”

Dean frowned. “What kind of dicks have you been tangling with, anyhow?”

Sam’s smile was small and tired. “The fucking closet cases. I don’t know, Dean. It sucks.”

“Yeah, kick them in the nuts for me. New rule: Big brothers are allowed to do that.”

Sam sort of hesitated for a split-second, then he leaned in close again. “I fucking hate that ‘everyone knows’ guys only want sex, ‘cause _I don’t_ , Dean. Do you know how many ‘first dates’ I’ve had that were really just about getting laid to the guy I went out with?”

“Yeah, too many,” Dean said. “Cas, uh, was pretty big on the whole ‘no putting out on the first date’ deal, too. So, you know, you’re not alone?”

-.-

“You were really never confused?”

“Confused? About what?”

Sam looked straight at him. “About liking guys.”

Dean leaned back on the couch, feet stretched out in front of him. Ideally, they were supposed to enjoy the best Fridays had to offer: double episodes of Stargate: SG-1 and Dr. Sexy MD. Of course, Sammy had been in an ask and poke mood all afternoon, so, Dean reasoned, he really shouldn’t be that surprised at the constant interruptions that had dogged him ever since their talk at the Tangerine.

“I mean,” Sam said, “there were times I felt like shit. Like, I felt like I was suffocating because nothing made sense anymore. I understand now that some of that came from us leaving Dad, but there was also the fact that I was noticing guys along with girls at school, and that freaked me out real bad, Dean. You’re saying you never went through that, never felt confused or anything?”

“Yeah, I never felt confused,” Dean said. “I mean, when I’m hungry, I eat, right? So, when I’m horny, I find someone to scratch that itch with. Hot is hot, man, and it doesn’t matter if the person I’m interested in comes equipped with a dick or a pussy, ‘cause bottom line?”

“What?”

“If I like them, I like them.” Dean raised his bottle of beer to his lips and took a sip. “I’ve never had sex with anyone I don’t like, though. Charlie says I’m so chill about my sexuality ‘cause I’m attracted to people, not what bits they have. You getting me here? If a dude who’s coming on to me is sleazy as fuck, all dodgy and shady? Then I’m not gonna, no way, but the same’s true if it’s a chick, so, you know, you tell me.”

“That almost makes sense, Dean.”

“Oh, shut up, bitch.”

“No, I’m serious, man.” Sam laughed. “You’re really deep, you know that?”

“I’m throwing up in my mouth right now, Sammy, you’re so sensitive.”

“Jerk.”

“Wish you’d have told me, though.”

“What?”

“Why you were such a mopey shit. I was worried, dude.”

“It felt like no one could help me, you know? Like I was all alone in the entire world, and that no one would understand what I was going through.”

“Yeah, you’re the world’s least dramatic person, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam. Shut up. I know how it sounds now, you dick, but back then?”

“Back then, you were climbing mountains to stay on top of the world.” Dean wet his lips, then thought: fuck it, they were already oversharing and being all touchy-feely anyway. “I always regretted I couldn’t give you more back then. You know, clothes that were new, better food, whole books. Proper stuff. I wish I could’ve changed that.”

“Dean… I was happy, okay? I mean, aside from my sexual identity crisis – I was happy.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Cas said that when his uncle took him in, he felt like that was all that mattered. That as long as _someone_ wanted him, then all the other stuff just wasn’t as important anymore. I never thought about it that way, ‘cause I was always fighting to keep us afloat: paying bills, buying food, cleaning, working, getting you to school and back, lying low and staying off the grid. I never had time to stop and think back then.”

The couch shifted as Sam moved closer. “Cas is right, you know? I mean, of course I missed Dad, I still do, but I was happy, too. You let me stay in one school, you remembered birthdays, and Christmas and Thanksgiving, and you were proud of my grades, man. You let me hang out with my friends, you drove me anywhere I wanted. Sure, maybe sometimes I wished we could’ve owned a computer or video games or something, but then you’d take me fucking bowling and just be a complete dork, and I’d forget I ever wanted anything more, you know? I know I’ve never said it, and I should’ve, but I’m grateful, okay? So, thank you, Dean, for making sure my childhood didn’t completely suck.”

“Sammy—”

“No, Dean, listen to me: the only thing I really regret is that you had to put your life on hold for me. I regret that, ‘cause I always wanted you to have the best, too, you know?”

“I don’t regret it, okay? I did what I had to, and I was proud to do it. I was happy, man. Even if I worked ten hours a day poking at cars or waiting tables, I was happy.”

“Aw, Dean,” Sam said, then the Sasquatch was all over him, trying to hug him. Dean fought back, kicking and pulling, and they crashed to the floor in no time, full out wrestling, laughing and shouting all the while.

-.-

So maybe Dean forgot about something. Sammy’d called when he was fifteen minutes out on the train, and then they’d spent all of Saturday thoroughly breaking in Dean’s new (used) gaming console – the kid wanted video games growing up and Dean was like a child at heart anyway; it evened out. Then there was pizza, more beer and too much ice-cream.

When Sunday dawned, early and bright, Dean had a niggling at the back of his head that he was maybe forgetting something. He was in the kitchen area of his apartment, trying to get the coffee machine to work – seriously, it was such a fucking slut for Castiel, but would it work when Dean desperately needed some coffee early as fuck on a Sunday because Sammy needed to have a shower at ass o’clock in the morning? No, it fucking well wouldn’t.

It was just – and, okay, it wasn’t Sam’s fault that he didn’t know about Castiel and Dean’s standing breakfast-cooking invitation thing – but still. When someone rang the doorbell, what kind of idiot was his brother, anyway? Did he really have to open the fucking door in only a sorry excuse for a towel? Really? Seriously, who did that?

“I see,” Dean heard Castiel say. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Dean?” Sam called. “Why didn’t you say you were expecting company?”

When Dean finally rounded the corner, grumpy and tired, clad in his sleep/laze-around-at-home clothes, it was to be greeted by Castiel’s ‘I’m not impressed’ face and Sam’s ‘Shit, I’m so fucking embarrassed right now’ face. He thought it terribly unfair that in both cases, they both partially found him to be the cause of blame behind it.

Dean took a deep breath, said, “I’m going to regret this.”

“Oh my god, you’re Castiel!” Sam exclaimed, big fucking grin splitting his face in two. “I’ve heard so much about you, man. I can’t believe _Dean_ didn’t tell me you were coming around.”

Castiel eyed the hand Sam had thrust out, then slowly reached out and grabbed it. “Hello,” he said, and he was frowning.

“Cas,” Dean said. “Make me coffee?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, something steely about his tone.

Dean frowned. “Please make me coffee? Sammy, go put some pants on or something. Thought I raised you better than that.” Sam rolled his eyes, but did do as ordered. “Seriously, you spend eighteen years beating common sense into someone, and they go off to college and it’s like you shouldn’t even have bothered.”

Castiel had an eyebrow raised, but he looked relaxed in a way he hadn’t since Sam’d opened the door. “Your brother is quite tall,” he said.

Rolling his eyes, Dean grabbed Castiel by the wrist then forcibly dragged him to the kitchen. He stopped in front of the coffee machine and pushed Castiel around until he was standing in front of it. “Coffee? Please?”

Castiel sighed, but then he reached for the filters and the ground coffee beans, and Dean slumped against Castiel’s back. “Coffee,” he sighed, smiling.

“You have a problem, Dean.”

“Coffee machine’s evil,” Dean agreed. “Seriously, it bends over backwards for you, and I can’t even get it to turn on half the time.”

“Hey, Dean,” Sam called, probably from Dean’s bedroom. “This isn’t gonna be like the time you had Cindy over and I came into the kitchen and you were eating her out on the table, right? Because I still have nightmares from that. Like, serious mental traumas were had that I’m not over yet.”

It really wasn’t fair, Dean thought, that Castiel burst out laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Of course, there was that split second moment before it, where they just kind of froze, but Castiel was seriously falling apart laughing right now.

“You’re an evil little bitch, Sammy!” Dean shouted back. “And I have pictures of you and that tutu!”

(He didn’t, but Sam didn’t need to know that.)

“And I’m not letting you have any pancakes, either!” Dean added.

And there was Sam, immediately in the doorway with a wide and innocent smile on his face, dimples and puppy-dog eyes and all. “Pancakes?”

“Seriously, dude, how old are you?”

“Dean,” Castiel said. “You basically have an orgasm every time I make you pie.”

And there went Dean’s concentration.

-.-

So, yeah, breakfast wasn’t as awkward as it could have been, because Sam was like a puppy with a new bone and Castiel was all shyly delighted about meeting Dean’s brother (and, okay, yeah, Castiel had been dropping some not-so-subtle hints that he wanted to meet Sam for a while, same as Sam had been moaning about never having met any of Dean’s new friends), but it wasn’t until he was actually sitting there, talking and eating, that he really got what it was about.

“Hey, wait,” Dean said. “Was I supposed to be embarrassed to introduce you two? Like, Cas is a dude so I shouldn’t let him meet my brother?”

“Of course not,” Castiel said.

“But you could’ve told me you liked guys before,” Sam put in. “Just saying.”

“Bitch. But seriously—”

“He didn’t know?” Castiel asked. “Dean, you hadn’t told your own brother—”

“—that I like people? Uh, no, must’ve slipped my mind.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam and I’ve been over this already. You—” he pointed at Sam— “You were surprised I wasn’t ashamed of Cas, and you—” he pointed at Castiel— “You’ve been on my case about Sam for a while. If you wanted to meet him so bad, you could’ve said and I would’ve set something up sooner, Sammy being a bitch about it notwithstanding.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you that wanting to meet the family of your boyfriend is important, Dean. It’s common sense.”

“Except Dean doesn’t date,” Sam said. “He has ‘ _assignations_.’ So, no, he wouldn’t know unless told, and I didn’t know he was seeing you until Friday.”

“Dean.”

Dean frowned. “I talk about Cas all the time, dude.”

“You said you had dinner together.”

“Yeah, we did. Several times.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “How am I supposed to know that when you said ‘dinner’ you really meant ‘date’ when you’ve never had a serious relationship in your life?”

“Uh, well,” Dean said, sitting back, because when put like that? He could sort of, maybe see Sam’s point. “You asked if I was seeing Charlie?”

“Not the point and you know it. If I’d known you went for everything instead of just women? Then, yeah, I’d have asked, but Dean? Most straight dudes take really strong exception to being asked if they like dick.”

“I know that,” Dean said, because, _yeah_ he knew. “So this is a big deal, then?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Huh.” Dean raised his eyebrows, cleared his throat. “Should I be scared? I mean, the two of you? Teaming up on me?”

Castiel smiled, and it wasn’t one of his nicer smiles, necessarily, even though it made something lurch in Dean’s stomach. “I think an exchange of contact information is necessary, don’t you, Sam?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wait,” Dean interjected. “Does this mean I should tell Bobby, too?”

“Oh my god, Dean, _yes_. You hit the three week mark, then you tell people, okay? It’s not that hard, seriously.”

-.-

**_ To:  _ ** _ [ **deanwinchester@mail.com** ](mailto:deanwinchester@mail.com) _  
**_ From:  _ ** _ [ **castielsmith@university.mail.com** ](mailto:castielsmith@university.mail.com) _

_ Dean, your brother is a giant. I should never have doubted Charlie’s word. _

_ I will pick you up at seven Saturday; make sure you wear something appropriate. _

_ Sincerely,  _  
_ Castiel _

-.-

_We should have dinner_ , Castiel had said. _I want you to meet my uncle again_ , Castiel had said. _We had breakfast with your brother, and you_ introduced _us_ , Castiel had said, and Dean had wondered again what kind of dicks his brother and Castiel had been hanging out with who didn’t even have the decency to know how fucking lucky they were. Because they— Sammy and Castiel? They were awesome and smart and way too good for, well, people like Dean. But Dean was greedy, lucky on occasion, and he knew, when he had something good, to hold on like crazy.

So there Dean was, wearing a fucking shirt with buttons and shit that was so new it didn’t even have wrinkles, and Castiel was sitting next to him, almost buzzing. The restaurant was so far out of Dean’s comfort zone that he didn’t know what to make of it, but Castiel had said it was Gabriel’s favorite, so there they were.

“So, Dean-o, rules of conduct.”

“No,” Castiel said. “Dean is not like that.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “No, little bro?”

“I’m not your brother,” Castiel said.

“Well, I’m not old enough to be your dad, Castiel.”

Castiel shrugged. “Dean has already introduced me to his family.”

“Dude, we just had breakfast with my brother.”

“And he clearly knew me.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, for a moment looking way too much like his uncle. “Which means you talk to him about me, the same way you talk to me about him. So.” Castiel turned back to Gabriel. “Dean is different.”

-.-

It wasn’t that the dinner with Gabriel escalated or anything; it was that Dean got to drink really good beer, eat some really good food and then chase it all down with the best fucking whiskey he’d ever had in his life; it was that Castiel shared a bottle of wine with his uncle; it was that they all shared some really amazing chocolate desert, had a good time and talked half the night away. Castiel ended up sitting too close to Dean, just like always because he clearly had no concept of personal space – didn’t before, and it only got worse after they started dating for real.

But, yeah, Dean invited Castiel in for coffee or tea or whatever and, yeah, they managed a cup each before Dean found himself with Castiel plastered all over him, straddling his lap and tongue in his mouth.

Castiel was just the best fucking kisser Dean’d ever known in his life.

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, over and over, and each time it sent a frisson of fire down Dean’s stomach, made him clutch Castiel closer, made his fingers dip down and tug Castiel’s shirts out of his trousers, made Dean trace the bumps of his spine, the jut of his hip bones, bare skin that was hot and smooth and fucking fantastic.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean said at one point, when Castiel tugged and pulled until Dean was shirtless, Castiel’s hands hot and warm and fucking sinful on his chest, so Dean got to work on Castiel’s waistcoat. By the time they reached Dean’s bedroom, his glorious fucking bed, Castiel’d lost his tie, his waistcoat, most of the buttons on his shirt as well as the shirt itself. But he was wearing this stupid, stupid undershirt and Dean was trying to get it off even though Castiel was being an unhelpful bastard who’d rather bite at Dean’s neck and feel up his ass than help.

“Dean, Dean—”

“Yeah,” Dean said, got his hands flat on Castiel’s stomach and moved up, taking the stupid undershirt with him. But there was another stupid shirt under it, and it had a zipper running down the front and, shit, it really felt more like a sports bra than something a guy should be wearing, but Dean didn’t really care because this was _Castiel_ , so he pulled at the zipper and then the situation tipped into weird. Castiel went still the same time Dean did, his eyes large and dark. “Cas—”

“Dean. I need to tell you—”

“Ah,” Dean said, eyebrows raised. “Cas, you’ve got—”

“I never lied to you,” Castiel said, and he didn’t sound hurt or angry as much as he sounded disappointed, and, yeah, that got to Dean more than just plain anger would have.

Castiel pushed Dean away, then was all busy getting away and wrapping himself up in pretty much every blanket Dean owned, so. But Castiel, he was— Dean didn’t really know, all he knew was that Castiel’s face was more closed-off than Dean had ever seen and that just sat _wrong_ with him. So he ended up saying the only thing he could actually say without being either a bastard or lying to Castiel’s face about it.

“Yeah, no, I’m not getting it.”

“It’s not rocket science,” Castiel snapped.

“Isn’t it?” Dean bit back. “‘Cause right now? To me? Yeah, it pretty fucking much is! You’ve got fucking tits, man!”

“Dean!”

“Fucking explain it, Cas! Fuck, I don’t know, man, just lay it out or something!”

“I am a man, Dean,” Castiel said, tone sharp and angry. “It’s as simple as that.”

Dean frowned. “Then why the fuck didn’t you just say that? Since when do I ever go for the fancy, wrapped-up-in-a-bow explanations or long-winded, emotional heart-to-hearts, huh? I know who you fucking are, man.” He ran a hand through his hair, then did up his fly and got off the bed. “A little heads-up would’ve been awesome, though, and, c’mon, I’m not a total dick, right? I mean—”

“You use the word ‘tranny’ about people, Dean! I’m not a tranny—”

“But there is a word, right?”

“Shut up,” Castiel said. His eyes were like fire, and Dean probably shouldn’t find that hot (except he totally did; Dean liked bossy). “Transsexual. I was ‘born’ with the wrong ‘packaging’.” Dean thought Castiel probably didn’t have the whole air-quotes deal down, but he wasn’t gonna comment on that (yet). “On a subconscious level I always knew and when I came to understand what was wrong with me and I informed my family about it—”

“They kicked you out and you ran off to live with Gabe?”

“Yes.” Castiel stood straight and tense in his corner, covered head to toe in Dean’s afghan – it was an ugly thing Sam’d made back in high school, but he’d kept it ‘cause, well, he just had. “I should have told you, yes. I was going to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you’re infuriating! And cocky! And you _dressed up_ _for my uncle_ , and you’re _nice_ , and your _smile_ , Dean! Have you seen your smile?” Castiel glared, but Dean wasn’t really sure who he was angry with at this point. As for himself? Dean had a strange growing ball of fucking heat in his stomach. “You shouldn’t smile at me like that, Dean.”

“Like what?”

Castiel waved Dean off. “You’re distracting me again.” He jabbed a finger at Dean. “Gabriel told me I should have informed you weeks ago, but I didn’t want to because you treat me like a _person_ , not some freak or abomination. When I’m with you I’m real, _I matter_.”

“Dude,” Dean said. “You always matter.”

“Shut up!” Castiel snapped. “You’re doing it again.”

Dean smirked; he couldn’t help it. And, yeah, so maybe the way he cocked his hips when he leaned against the dresser was on purpose, but he wasn’t ever gonna admit that (not to Castiel, anyway). “Doing what?”

“Dean. You make me forget that I hate my body. You make me forget that I’m wrong.”

“Cas, you’re fucking perfect, man.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I _hate_ my body.”

“I don’t like you because of your body, idiot; I like you because it’s _you_.”

-.-

So there was tea, because Castiel insisted and Dean kind of always folded whenever Castiel _insisted_ , mostly because he was seriously hot when he went all glarey and scowly. They were back on Dean’s sofa again instead of on his bed, but Castiel was still shrouded in a blanket and Dean was still mostly confused.

“Talk to me, Cas.”

“I think I lost my words,” Castiel answered.

“You have tits. Like, the perfect handful.”

And there was the glare again, back at full strength. Dean would’ve felt guilty about it except, crass as his opening line was, it got Castiel to start talking. “I was born wrong. Gabriel has been helping me fix it since I was fifteen.”

“Fix how, exactly? I mean, I’m assuming you don’t just mean dressing in drag, right?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, took a deep breath. Dean bit his lip. “I’m being a dick again?”

“Yes. An immense dick of epic proportions.”

Dean leered. “Well, I’m pretty well-equipped—”

“Shut up. If I dressed in drag, I’d be wearing glitter and wigs and heels and sequins. I dress comfortably; I dress as _myself_. What I project to the world is how I want to be seen. This is who I am, Dean.”

“You have stubble.”

“I’ve been taking hormone treatments for years. Testosterone shots,” Castiel explained at Dean’s blank look. “Testosterone helps my body develop in a way I prefer.”

“Like, manlier?”

Castiel nodded.

“But, you have tits. I mean, no offense, man, but… I don’t get it.”

Castiel shrugged. “I had them before I started. They won’t go away, because testosterone isn’t a magical, fix-all cure. I need surgery. I just… It’s costly, and it takes time to recover. I have been saving for years, since my first job. Gabriel offered to pitch in, but this is something I need to do on my own.”

“You’re a college teacher. And you have a house. And—”

“When I told you I was going to Europe this summer I lied.”

Dean blinked. “Oh.”

Castiel shifted. “It was the time-frame I gave myself to come clean to you. I’m scheduled for chest-reconstruction surgery in June. The twentieth. I am… nervous. And scared. And I look forward to it more than I’ve ever looked forward to anything in my life. I planned on asking you to come with me, but…”

“But, what, you changed your mind?” Dean frowned. “I mean, I’m not saying I get this, what you’re telling me, but I care about you, dude. If you want me to come, I’ll be there before you can—”

“It’s in Florida.”

“—holy shit, I’m not getting on a plane to fucking _Florida_ , man, are you _crazy_?”

Castiel laughed. Eyes crinkling up, shoulders shaking, the whole shebang. But then he calmed down and looked Dean right in the eye, said, “More than anything, I want you there when I wake up. I want to be put under knowing you’ll be there waiting for me when I come out.” And Dean kind of didn’t really know what to do with himself.

“I can drive. Man, I’ll totally drive.”

Castiel sort of smiled, then he grew serious again. “What is it you don’t get?”

Dean let out a sigh, frustrated with himself, but a little bit with Castiel, too, for putting him on the spot and forcing him to use _words_. “I don’t know. How it works, I guess. I’ve had a dick my whole life, man, and pussies are great, okay? I get that I’m not the smartest guy around, so obviously there’s something here I’m not getting. How do you know you’re a dude, not a chick? I mean, _how_ do you know that?”

“Because it feels wrong,” Castiel said, and he was so matter of fact about it, too. “The person I am, the _me_ in my head… I don’t match with the way my body looks on the outside. When I look in a mirror, I want to break it because the image it reflects is a _lie_. I know who I am, Dean, and I _don’t_ look like this.”

“Cas,” Dean said, and after he’d put his mug of tea to the side and scooted as close to Castiel as he could, put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Look, man. I’ve thought you were a guy since the day I met you. Hell, I still do. Everything about you comes off as male, okay? I mean, if I hadn’t had my hands down your shirt, I wouldn’t have known you had, like, legitimate tits. And it’s not just in the way you identify, you know? You carry yourself as a guy, you introduce yourself as a guy, everything about you _screams_ dude. Until just now, I didn’t know you weren’t—”

“I’m stopping you there before you say something that will make me hurt you, Dean,” Castiel said. “You’re uncouth; we both know it.”

“I’m assuming that’s a dig at my wonderful manners.”

“It is.”

“I just wanted to say: your tits are invisible, okay? You can’t see them even when you look.”

“Have you been looking?”

Dean grinned. “Hell, yeah. Dude, you’re hot. Of course I’ve been checking you out. Especially since, you know, after we started dating and stuff.”

“I meant: have you been trying to stare at— at them?”

“You can’t fault me for being curious, but, no, I haven’t. Even I know ogling isn’t done.”

“Dean, you’re a pervert who ogles everything that moves. I know you.” Castiel rolled his eyes, then said, “It took me years to get to this point, Dean. Ten years ago I would have punched your face in. I’m not comfortable in my skin, but I’m not alienating myself anymore either. When I was fifteen, Gabriel sent me to therapy twice a week, and these days I see a therapist once a month. I’ve come a long way, and it hasn’t been easy or smooth.”

-.-

Epilogue.

-.-

Bobby called on a Monday. Dean was across the country, sitting outside the private practice where Castiel was getting his surgery done. In hindsight, he thought it was more than a bit odd that Bobby would know before the FBI, would think to call him, but he didn’t exactly pay it much attention.

“Your daddy got himself into a mess,” Bobby said.

Dean grit his jaw. “How so?”

“The Feds ever come looking for you?”

“A while back, yeah. Why? What’s happening, Bobby?”

Bobby sighed. “The fires started up again, like clockwork, but you already know that. Your old man got caught in the crossfire from what I hear, trying to catch the psycho and staying out of the way of the officials. The way I hear it, things got a little messy.”

“Bobby—”

“No one’s talking, son. There was an explosion and they’re still sorting everything out, but they got the killer. Or so Frank tells me.”

“Oh,” Dean said.

“Don’t do anything stupid, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Dean said, but mostly he felt numb. “Is Dad alive, Bobby?”

Bobby hesitated. “No one’s saying anything, Dean. I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Dean took a breath, then he hung up.

“Your friend Bobby Singer is right about one thing,” Henriksen said from behind him. Dean would have been startled if not for the fact that, well, he was a paranoid bastard and he’d been expecting to be tailed since that day the FBI first came to see him. Also, black SUVs were kind of a dead giveaway.

“That a shotgun is a great way to get rid of bible thumpers?”

Henriksen laughed, then sat down next to Dean on the bench. “No, I’m talking about the fact that he’s right in that no one ever just walks out of this life. I could hand my resignation in tomorrow, and I’d still be an FBI agent for the rest of my life.”

“Funny, ‘cause I haven’t been a runner for hire since last century.”

Henriksen looked at him. “But you haven’t forgotten it, have you? It’s in your blood, boy.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to let it define who I am.”

“I can accept that.”

Dean looked out at the park in front of him, at the ocean just beyond. “You gonna tell me why you’re here?”

Henriksen sighed, but then he said, “We got an anonymous tip last night that led us straight to the arsonist.”

“Dad?”

“We think it might have been him who called it in, but his history doesn’t exactly indicate that he’d do something like that. Help the long arm of the law out. Regardless, it led us straight to our killer. John Winchester was already at the scene.”

“And?”

“We were just moving in when the building exploded.”

“So you don’t know if you got him?”

“Not for sure.” Henriksen shook his head. “But the likelihood of him walking out of there alive? And even if he’s somehow not dead, he’d be riddled with burns. We are watching every hospital in the area, but no one checked in with burns that severe in the last day or so.”

“And Dad?”

“We haven’t found him, either.” Henriksen shifted, then said, “How is Sam?”

“Safe,” Dean said. “He’s safe. Happy. Getting the education he always wanted. He’s talking about going into law.”

Henriksen laughed. “That’s good for him. I get the feeling he’ll be a nightmare to face in court.”

“I’m just glad he’s my brother, man.”

“He’s a smart kid,” Henriksen agreed. “I cannot tell you how glad I am that you got him out in time. Sam is exactly the kind of person you don’t want to have to face as a criminal. The same’s true for you as well. You’re too clever. The amount of damage you two could’ve gotten up to…” he trailed off, then faked a shiver. “Just out of curiosity, but how did you cover his tracks up that good?”

Dean shrugged, but mostly he was smirking because there was no way he was going to come clean to a Fed about that. “Luck, I’m guessing. Also, I know a guy.”

“Of course you do.” Henriksen rolled his eyes.

Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I never see you again.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Dean.” Henriksen sighed, then stood. “Now, I have a ton of paperwork to deal with. I’ll let you know when we find something.”

Dean nodded, then watched as Henriksen walked off to where the way too obvious black SUV was loitering by the sidewalk.

It wasn’t that he knew Henriksen or anything, that he’d ever met the guy before he’d shown up in Dean’s kitchen that day, but for a Fed, he wasn’t so bad. Dean might not like him, might hope he’d never have to meet the guy ever again, but the man was damned good at his job.

Now there was the mess with Dad and his mom’s killer to contend with, though, and he honestly had no idea how to feel about that. It was just… Dean came to terms with his mom’s death five years ago when he ran out on Dad with Sammy. He came to terms with a lot of shit back then, actually, and he’d never regretted leaving. He just regretted not having Dad around anymore. They didn’t have a lot of family, him and Sam, and he liked having what little he had as close as possible. He had Castiel to think about too these days, and Charlie and Jo, Bobby and even Gabe in a way. He knew he had to call his little brother up soon, hash it out with him about Dad and everything.

His phone started vibrating before he could do anything, though, the number from the clinic behind him flashing across the screen.

-.-

Castiel was more than a little groggy when he finally opened his eyes. Dean smiled at him, smoothed his hair back and felt his heart grow and stutter in his chest.

“Dean,” Castiel muttered.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

“You’re here.”

“Where else’d I be?”

Castiel closed his eyes, chuckling softly. “Good.”

-.-

Dean filled Castiel in on what had happened at some point, and later he spent over an hour on the phone with his brother. It just didn’t feel real; it didn’t feel as if anything had happened. He wondered if it was because he hadn’t been there, if it was because he was here, instead, helping as Castiel relearned the shape of his own body, watching as he healed a little more every day and glowed with it.

-.-

“So, Dad’s missing,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

“You think he got the killer?”

Dean snorted. “Hell, yeah. You think Dad would’ve gotten that close without closing the deal?”

“Not really. The FBI didn’t find anything?”

Dean shrugged. “Henriksen said they found something, just not Dad.”

“Do you think he’ll try to get in contact with us? Now that it’s over?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe.”

Sam was quiet awhile, then he said, “Is it bad that I want him to? I mean, I know we fought like hell back then and that I don’t think I can ever forgive him for the shit he did, but he’s still Dad.”

“I know,” Dean said.

-.-

The scars were stark on Castiel’s chest, stark but neat. They’d fade in the way scars did, and while they’d never go away entirely, they’d turn invisible enough.

“It feels strange,” Castiel said. “It’s like a literal weight has been taken off my chest.”

“In a way it has,” Dean said, trailing his fingers down Castiel’s stomach. “Does it feel really strange?”

Castiel shook his head. “I am so relieved I don’t even have words to describe it. I don’t need to wear a binder any more, my chest hair doesn’t look out of place, and… I’m content, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Dean smiled. “That’s not too bad, ‘cause I’m edging on happy, myself.”

“I could get there,” Castiel murmured, twisting until they were facing each other, stretched out on the bed. “I just need some encouragement.”

Dean grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, if you have to ask,” Castiel said, but he was grinning, too, and yeah. The world was certainly looking up.  


**Author's Note:**

> Castiel is trans*, FtM (female-to-male). Also, Dean is pansexual, Castiel is gay, Charlie is lesbian, Sam and Jo are bisexual and there's really no point airing out the closet further because that's basically it.
> 
> Two works spawned the original inspiration to write this story. One is a work of art, the other a McShep fanfic. You can find the [here](http://medicatedmaniac.deviantart.com/gallery/37791647#/d4u6v26) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/73062), respectively.
> 
> Oh, and my tumblr is [right here](http://saandrae.tumblr.com), with the [guinea pigs pic](http://saandrae.tumblr.com/post/65554404995) (that isn't mine, btw) and everything. The art will show up on tumblr, too, so I'll edit this when that happens, for all your leisure reblogging needs. [Art and fic combo is here](http://saandrae.tumblr.com/post/65646287635/mischievousart-dcbb-fic-peace-out-bitches)!


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